JKCnON  Vi 


H  A  (f.  R  Y      M^    O   U   I    R   t 


SECTION  VI 

NINETEENTH  CENTURY  POETS 


GENERAL  EDITOR 

RICHARD  BURTON,  Ph.D. 

PROFESSOR  OK    ENGLISH    LITERATURE 
UNIVERSITY  OF  MINNESOTA 


ALGERNON    CHARLES    SWINBURNE 

From  a  photograph  by  Elliott  &  Fry. 


SELECTED  POEMS 

BY 

ALGERNON  CHARLES  SWINBURNE 


EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 
BY 

WILLIAM  MORTON  PAYNE,  LL.D. 

ASSOCIATE  EDITOR  OF  *'THE  DIAL" 


BOSTON,    U.S.A.,    AND    LONDON 

D.  C.  HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT.    1905,   B« 
V.  C.  HEATH    &   CO. 


3l    3 


Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORMA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


TO 

E.  G.  R. 


ConttntjS 


Introduction xi 

Prefatory  Note xliii 

ODES 

Athens  :  An  Ode I 

The  Armada      ...            22 

Ode  on  the  Proclamation  of  the  French  Republic  50 

POEMS  OF  PAGANISM  AND  PANTHEISM 

The  Garden  of  Proserpine 67 

Hymn  to  Proserpine 71 

The  Last  Oracle 79 

Hertha 87 

Hymn  of  Man 97 

SONGS  BEFORE  SUNRISE 

Prelude 112 

Siena 119 

Perinde  ac  Cadaver 131 

The  Pilgrims      .      .      .      . 136 

Super  Flumina  Babylonis 141 

Mater  Dolorosa 148 

Mater  Triumphalis 153 


viii  Contentfif 

LYRICS  OF  NATURE  AND  LIFE 

By  the  North  Sea 162 

In  Guernsey 188 

March  :  An  Ode 1 94 

A  Forsaken  Garden 199 

On  the  Verge 204 

Recollections 206 

Choruses  from  Atalanta  in  Calydon    ....  209 

Choruses  from  Erechtheus 213 

Hesperia 219 

Two  Preludes 226 

A  Wasted  Vigil 227 

The  Sundew 230 

A  Match 232 

The  Salt  of  the  Earth 234 

Of  Such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven    .      .      .      .235 

A  Child's  Laughter 236 

A  Child's  Future 237 

A  Baby's  Death 239 

SONNETS 

Hope  and  Fear 243 

Non  Dolet 244 

Pelagius 244 

The  Descent  into  Hell 247 

The  Moderates 248 

The  Burden  of  Austria 249 

Apologia 250 

On  the  Russian  Persecution  of  the  Jews  .      .      .250 

Dysthanatos 251 


Contents;  ix 

Carnot 252 

Vos  Deos  Laudamus 253 

In  San  Lorenzo 254 

The  Festival  of  Beatrice 256 

Christopher  Marlowe 257 

William  Shakespeare 258 

John  Webster 258 

Cor  Cordium 259 

Dickens 260 

On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  George 

Eliot 261 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Browning     ....  262 

PERSONAL  AND  MEMORIAL  POEMS 

Thalassius 263 

Adieux  a  Marie  Stuart 285 

On  a  Country  Road 290 

In  the  Bay 292 

In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor      .      .      .  305 

To  Victor  Hugo 307 

Ave  atque  Vale 316 

Lines  on  the  Monument  of  Giuseppe  Mazzini     .  3  26 

The  Death  of  Richard  Wagner 329 

Dedication  (Poems  and  Ballads,  I. )  .      .      .      •  33' 
Dedication  (Poems  and  Ballads,  II.)        .      .      -335 

METRICAL  EXPERIMENTS,     IMITATIONS, 
AND  PARODIES 

Hendecasyllabics 337 

Sapphics 338 


X  Contentfl! 

Choriambics 342 

Grand  Chorus  of  Birds  from  Aristophanes      .      .    345 

A  Jacobite's  Farewell 348 

A  Jacobite's  Exile 349 

The  Higher  Pantheism  in  a  Nutshell       .      .      -353 

Sonnet  for  a  Picture 355 

Nephilidia 356 

Chronological  List  of  Writings     .      .      .      -359 

Bibliographical  Note 361 

Notes 363 


gintroDuctfon 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne  is  the  one  great 
poet  left  to  the  English  race,  if  not  to  the  world,  at 
the  close  of  the  nineteenth  century.  When  his  first 
works  appeared,  in  the  early  sixties,  the  great  poets  of 
the  pre- Victorian  age,  Landor  alone  excepted,  had  long 
since  passed  away.  He  had  for  contemporaries  Tenny- 
son, Browning,  and  Arnold,  whose  fame  was  securely 
established,  and  Rossetti  and  Morris,  the  early  fruits  of 
whose  genius  were  known  to  a  few,  but  whose  wider 
reputation  was  still  to  be  won.  Particularly  associated 
with  the  latter  two  poets  in  sympathy  and  aim,  Swin- 
burne was  the  first  of  the  trio  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  public  at  large,  and  his  poetic  achievement  was 
destined  to  become  more  considerable  and  important 
than  that  of  either  of  these  fellow  workers.  A  quarter 
of  a  century  ago,  he  was  one  of  six  living  English  poets 
of  the  first  rank;  between  1882  and  1896  his  five 
great  contemporaries  died,  leaving  him  in  the  position 
of  solitary  preeminence  which  he  has  ever  since  oc- 
cupied. It  is  not  easy  to  find  anywhere  in  the  history 
of  modern  letters  a  parallel  to  this  extraordinary  stat" 
of  affairs  ;  literature  the  world  over  appears  to  be  fast 
lapsing  into  prose,  and  the  torch  of  high  and  serious 
poetry  seems  in  danger  of  becoming  quenched  for  lack 
of  a  bearer. 


xii  31ntroUuccion 

Swinburne  was  born  in  London,  April  5,  1837. 
He  was  the  oldest  child  of  Admiral  Charles  Henry 
Swinburne  and  Lady  Jane  Henrietta,  daughter  of  the 
third  Earl  of  Ashburnham.  He  is  descended  from  a 
very  ancient  Northumbrian  family  which  dates,  says 
Burke,  ♦•  from  so  remote  a  period  that  the  Swinburnes 
of  Swinburne  Casde  have  been  esteemed  feudal  lords." 
The  members  of  the  family  now  living  are  the  direct 
descendants  of  Sir  WiUiam  de  Swinburne,  who  lived 
in  the  time  of  Henry  III.  The  present  head  of  the 
family  is  Sir  John  Edward  Swinburne,  sixth  baronet, 
a  first  cousin  of  the  poet.  The  Ashburnham  lineage  is 
also  long  and  distinguished,  the  family  having  been, 
according  to  Nisbet,  "  of  good  account  before  the  Con- 
quest." The  poet  was  educated  at  Eton  and  Balliol, 
but  left  Oxford  without  taking  a  degree.  His  four  years 
at  the  University  (i 856-1  860)  were  notable  for  his 
first  printed  writings,  being  five  contributions  to  Under- 
graduate Papers,  for  his  academic  distinction  in  French, 
Italian,  and  the  classics,  and  for  the  beginnings  of  his 
lifelong  friendship  with  Morris,  Rossetd,  and  Burne- 
Jones.  The  year  in  which  he  left  Oxford  marked  the 
publication  of  The  Queen  Mother  and  Rosamond,  his 
first  book.  The  following  year,  a  few  weeks  spent 
with  his  parents  in  Italy  were  made  for  ever  memorable 
to  him  by  his  meedng  with  the  venerable  Walter  Sav- 
age Landor.  Returning  to  England,  he  devoted  him- 
self to  literary  work,  in  1865  won  the  applause  of  the 
judicious  with  his  Atalanta  in  Calydon  and  Chastelard, 
and,  the  year  following  (1866),  took  the  public  by 
storm  with  the  famous  first  volume  of  his  Poems  and 


3IntroDuctton  xiii 

Ballads.  There  had  been  no  such  sensation  iii  Eng- 
lish poetry  since  the  appearance  of  the  first  two  cantos 
of  Childe  Harold  as  was  occasioned  by  this  volume, 
and  there  has  been  no  such  sensation  since.  And  the 
fame  thus  suddenly  achieved  was  destined  to  prove  no 
temporary  matter,  but  has  gone  on  broadening  and 
deepening  with  the  years  ;  a  new  century  has  begun 
its  course,  and  its  greatest  English  name  is  that  of  the 
poet  who  first  compelled  widespread  attention  nearly 
forty  years  ago.  During  these  years,  Swinburne's  life 
has  been  distinctly  that  of  a  man  of  letters,  and  its 
events  have  been  his  books.  A  glance  at  the  list  of  the 
writings  which  bear  his  name  will  show  with  what 
faithful  industry  he  has  pursued  his  calling.  Most  of 
the  years  have  been  spent  in  or  near  London  ;  since 
1879  his  home  has  been  at  Putney  Hill,  on  the  out- 
skirts of  the  metropolis,  where  he  lives  with  his  dearest 
friend,  Theodore  Watts-Dunton,  himself  a  poet  of  no 
mean  accomplishment,  besides  being  the  most  profound 
critic  of  English  poetry  now  living.  An  ideal  compan- 
ionship, combined  with  the  pleasures  of  the  simple  life, 
reading,  walking,  swimming,  the  love  of  children  and 
the  converse  of  friends,  —  such  have  been  the  circum- 
stances of  the  poet  for  the  past  quarter  of  a  century, 
such  the  conditions  under  which  he  has  produced  book 
after  book  of  imperishably  beautiful  poetry. 

Before  attempting  a  detailed  characterization  of  that 
poetry,  it  seems  desirable  to  clear  the  ground  by  say- 
ing a  few  words  about  Swinburne's  prose,  which  is 
so  noteworthy  that,  even  were  there  no  verse  to  his 
account,  he  would  still  be  one  of  the  most  important 


xiv  31ntroDuction 

writers  of  our  time.  His  volumes  of  prose  are  almost 
as  numerous  as  his  volumes  of  verse,  and,  when  we 
reckon  with  them  the  uncollected  matter  to  be  found 
in  pamphlets,  periodicals,  and  encyclopjedias,  the  prose 
will  be  found  to  exceed  the  verse  in  quantity.  With 
respect  to  quality,  of  course,  the  case  is  different. 
Swinburne,  like  Carlyle,  has  shown  himself  perfectly 
capable,  at  need,  of  writing  simple  and  forcible  English 
prose,  but,  also  like  Carlyle,  he  has  deliberately  pre- 
ferred to  cultivate  a  style  of  tortuous  complexity  and 
labyrinthine  structure,  a  style  overloaded  with  epithets 
and  packed  with  recondite  allusions,  a  style  that  is 
anything  but  a  model  of  what  prose  ought  to  be.  Yet 
at  its  best  this  style  achieves  an  impressiveness  and  an 
eloquence  that  are  very  remarkable  ;  it  imparts  real 
ideas  and  becomes  the  vehicle  of  a  penetrative  criticism 
and  a  fine  moral  fervor. 

Swinburne's  prose  is,  of  course,  so  largely  con- 
cerned with  the  criticism  of  literature  that  its  opportun- 
ities are  restricted,  but  this  does  not  prevent  it  fi-om 
throwing  side-lights  upon  many  subjects  of  other  than 
literary  interest,  or  from  stimulating  the  whole  intel- 
lectual life  rather  than  that  section  thereof  which  is 
concerned  with  questions  of  taste  and  the  fitness  of  lit- 
erary forms  to  subserve  their  respective  ends.  Aside 
from  a  few  polemical  publications  of  ephemeral  inter- 
est, Swinburne's  prose  work  is  comprised  in  three 
collections  of  miscellaneous  essays,  and  in  the  special 
volumes  upon  William  Blake,  Charlotte  Bronte,  Hugo, 
Chapman,  Jonson,  and  Shakespeare.  There  is  also  a 
considerable  quantity  of  uncollected  matter,  of  which 


3IntroDuction  xv 

the  most  valuable  part  is  a  series  of  essays  dealing  with 
the  more  important  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.  As 
a  critic  of  literature  Swinburne  is  entitled  to  a  high 
rank.  His  involved  manner  of  saying  things,  and  the 
warmth  of  the  laudation  which  he  sometimes  bestows, 
are  but  incidental  defects,  after  all,  and  should  not  be 
allowed  to  obscure  the  very  real  and  solid  merit  of  his 
analysis.  There  are  few  books  about  Shakespeare  as 
helpfvil  and  stimulating  as  Swinburne's  Study  of  the 
greatest  of  poets.  It  will  do  for  the  student  precisely 
what  a  whole  library  of  scientific  criticism  will  not  do; 
it  will  save  him  from  mechanical  methods  of  judgment 
and  all  the  deadening  influences  of  pedantry;  it  will 
impart  to  him  something  of  its  own  generous  enthusi- 
asm and  genial  insight.  This  book  and  its  companion 
studies  upon  the  Ehzabethan  writers  have  done  much 
for  the  proper  appreciation  of  the  poetry  of  our  great 
dramatic  period,  and  no  one,  perhaps,  has  discussed 
that  poetry  with  warmer  sympathy  and  deeper  insight. 
Extravagance  in  both  praise  and  censure  is  often  charged 
against  him,  and  doubtless  with  justice.  But  on  the 
former  count  of  the  indictment  we  may  at  least  urge 
that  what  he  calls  "  the  noble  pleasure  of  praising" 
is  surely  one  of  the  most  important  functions  o^  criti- 
cism, while  on  the  latter  count,  despite  the  occasional 
vehemence  of  the  attack,  it  may  be  said  that  he  sets 
a  salutary  example  against  the  sort  of  complacency  that 
is  far  too  commonly  met  with  in  current  criticism. 

Coming  now  to  a  consideration  of  Swinburne  the 
poet,  we  find  that  his  verse  is  about  equally  divided 
between  the   dramatic  and  non-dramatic  forms.    Of 


xvi  ;31ntroDuction 

dramatic  work  there  are  ten  volumes,  including  eleven 
plays,  one  of  which  is  double  the  ordinary  length  ;  of 
non-dramatic  work  there  are  fourteen  volumes.  By  the 
author's  ow^n  choice,  as  shown  in  the  uniform  edition 
of  his  poems  now  in  course  of  issue,  Atalanta  and 
Erechtheus  are  separated  from  the  section  of  Dramatic 
Works  and  placed  in  the  section  of  Poetical  Works. 
This  arrangement  tips  the  balance  to  the  side  of  the 
latter  section,  which,  in  the  new  edition,  occupies  six 
volumes  out  of  the  total  eleven.  It  also  provides  a  rea- 
sonable pretext  for  including  in  the  present  volume  of 
selections  certain  choruses,  which  could  ill  be  spared, 
taken  from  the  two  Greek  dramas. 

Of  Swinburne's  poems  in  dramatic  form,  the  two 
just  mentioned  are  Greek  in  theme,  and,  to  an  aston- 
ishing extent,  are  also  Greek  in  thought,  feeling,  and 
structure.  The  Samson  Agonistes  of  Milton  is  the  only 
other  work  in  English  poetry  with  which  they  may 
fairly  be  compared,  and  even  that  masterpiece,  although 
written  in  imitation  of  a  Greek  tragedy,  is  Hebraic 
in  its  subject.  But  Atalarita  in  Calydon  and  Erechtheus 
are  Greek  through  and  through  —  that  is,  as  nearly  so 
as  modern  work  can  possibly  be,  for  it  must  be  said  of 
all  such  imitations  that  •♦  the  best  in  this  kind  are  but 
shadows."  However  deeply  a  poet  of  our  time  may 
be  in  sympathy  with  the  Hellenic  spirit,  and  whatever 
knowledge  and  enthusiasm  he  may  bring  to  its  repro- 
duction, the  infusion  of  modern  feeling  is  inevitable 
in  balance  and  symmetry  and  restraint  the  later  work 
is  the  finer  of  the  two,  being  the  product  of  a  riper 
and  more  chastened  genius,  but  the  earlier  work  has 


31ntroDuction  xvii 

aVays  been  the  more  popular  by  reason  of  its  lyrical 
spontaneity  and  the  opulence  of  its  inspiration. 

Of  Swinburne's  other  dramas,  the  three  which  deal 
with  the  fortunes  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  constitut- 
ing a  single  work  of  comprehensive  plan  and  colossal 
execution,  are  much  the  most  important.  Nearly  a 
score  of  years  went  to  the  composition  of  this  work, 
which  is  a  monument  to  the  poet's  historical  scholar- 
ship as  well  as  a  masterpiece  of  flexible  and  compact 
blank  verse.  Mr.  James  Douglas  says  :  "It  is  as  if  a 
Gardiner  had  turned  poet  in  order  to  paint  passionately 
vivid  portraits  of  Mary,  of  Bothwell,  of  Darnley,  of 
John  Knox,  and  of  the  minor  figures  in  a  tragic  coil 
of  doom  as  awful  as  that  of  the  Oresteia. ' '  The  divi- 
sions of  the  trilogy  are  respectively  entitled  Chastelard, 
Bothwell,  and  Mary  Stuart.  They  cover  more  than  a 
quarter-century  of  the  Queen's  life  between  her  return 
from  France  and  her  execution.  The  poet's  Jacobite 
ancestry,  combined  with  his  romantic  temperament, 
made  this  subject  appeal  to  him  strongly,  and  he  sounds 
a  more  indmate  note  than  is  customary  with  him  in 
the  valedictory  verses  which  mark  the  completion  of  hi» 
labors. 

"  Queen,  for  whose  house  my  fathers  fought 
With  hopes  that  rose  and  fell, 
Red  star  of  boyhood's  fiery  thought, 
Farewell. 

**  Queen,  once  of  Scots  and  ever  of  ours 
Whose  sires  brought  forth  for  you 
Their  lives  to  strew  "our  way  like  fioweny 
Adieu." 


.-<. 


xviii  ^IntroDuction 

Swinburne's  remaining  dramas,  six  in  number,  are  of 
much  less  importance  than  those  above  described.  His 
first  published  book  contained  The  ^een  Mother  and 
Rosamond,  the  former  dealing  with  the  Massacre  of 
St.  Bartholomew,  and  the  latter  —  in  five  short  scenes 
only  —  with  the  piteous  tale  of  the  bower  at  Wood- 
stock and  the  secret  love  of  Henry  II.  Both  show 
the  marks  of  Elizabethan  influence,  and  in  them  are 
foreshadowed  many  of  the  characteristic  traits  of  the 
poet's  genius.  The  Greek  plays  and  the  Mary  Stuart 
trilogy  filled  many  years  following,  and  it  was  not  until 
a  quarter  of  a  century  later  that  the  poet's  attention  was 
called  to  the  new-old  subject  of  that  venerable  Doge  of 
Venice  who  sought  to  avenge  his  wrongs  by  the  be- 
trayal of  the  Republic,  an  interest  which  resulted  in 
the  production  oi  Marino  Falieroy  far  out-distancing 
Byron's  treatment  of  the  same  theme.  Locrine,  a  nov- 
elty in  rhymed  metres,  came  next,  and  told  once  more 
the  tragic  legend  of  Sabrina,  as  found  in  Geoffrey  of 
Monmouth's  British  history,  and  adorned  by  many 
English  poets  from  Spenser  to  Milton.  The  Sisters,  a 
comparatively  unimportant  work,  is  difficult  to  take 
seriously.  It  is  a  love-tragedy  of  modern  English  so- 
ciety and  contains  little  that  is  either  poetic  or  Swin- 
burnian.  Finally,  another  Rosamund,  the  Lombard 
queen  whose  grim  tragedy  may  be  found  in  Gibbon, 
was  made  the  subject  of  a  drama  written  nearly  forty 
years  after  the  English  Rosamond  had  occupied  the 
attention  of  the  youthful  poet.  The  contrast  between 
the  two  dramas  is  very  striking,  and  marks  all  the  dif- 
ference  between    unregulated   impulsive   art    and   re- 


3(lntroiJuction  xix 

strained  artistic  finish.  The  exuberance,  the  color,  the 
overwrought  imagery,  the  verbal  affluence,  the  Shake- 
spearian diction  of  the  earlier  work  have  vanished,  and 
in  their  place  we  have  sheer  simplicity  of  vocabulary, 
passion  intimated  rather  than  expressed,  imagery  re- 
duced to  bare  metaphor,  and  a  diction  well-nigh  shorn 
of  all  mannerisms. 

The  genius  of  Swinburne  is  essentially  lyrical,  and 
even  the  utterance  of  his  dramatic  characters  has  more 
of  the  singing  than  the  speaking  quality.  We  can  hardly 
imagine  any  of  his  dramas  produced  upon  any  stage,  or, 
if  so  produced,  creating  the  illusion  proper  to  the  acted 
play.  They  are  written  for  the  closet,  not  for  the 
stage,  and  the  accessories  of  the  playhouse  could  add 
nothing  to  their  impressiveness,  could,  indeed,  hardly 
fail  to  detract  therefrom.  Lyricism  is  also  the  predomi- 
nant quality  of  Swinburne's  excursions  into  the  domain 
of  epic.  These  are  chiefly  represented  by  his  two  long 
narrative  poems,  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  The  Tale 
of  Balen.  Both  are  studies  in  Arthurian  legend,  and 
both  are  widely  different  from  the  work  of  other  modern 
delvers  in  that  buried  mediasval  treasure-house.  Tris- 
tram of  Lyonesse,  in  a  prelude  and  nine  cantos,  amount- 
ing to  more  than  four  thousand  lines,  is  a  poem  written 
in  heroic  couplets.  But  no  other  heroic  couplets  in 
English,  from  Chaucer  to  Morris,  have  ever  been  sus- 
tained at  such  length  with  the  fluency,  the  passion,  and 
the  romantic  coloring  of  these.  For  the  first  time  in 
our  poetry,  they  make  of  this  form  an  instrument  of 
expression  fairly  comparable  with  the  blank  verse  of  the 
masters.     The    Tale  of  Balen    is    versified    from  the 


XX  ^l^itroDuction 

Morte  d''  Arthur  in  about  two  hundred  and  fifty  stanzas 
of  nine  lines  each.  The  stanzaic  form,  nearly  that  of 
Tennyson's  The  Lady  of  Shaloit,  invites  lyrical  ex- 
pression more  freely  than  the  rhymed  couplet,  and  the 
pathetic  story  of  the  two  brothers  sings  itself  in  flow- 
ing measures  from  its  blithe  beginning  to  its  tragic 
ending.  The  poem  follows  the  text  of  Malory  with 
singular  fidelity,  and  its  loveliness  quite  justifies  the 
rewriting  of  its  noble  prose  original. 

Having  thus  briefly  described  Swinburne's  prose 
writings,  and  his  poems  in  dramatic  and  epic  form,  we 
come  now  to  the  main  task  of  this  introductory  essay, 
which  is  the  characterization  of  the  mass  of  his  lyrical 
poetry.  We  have  for  examination  the  contents  of  more 
than  a  dozen  volumes,  ranging  from  the  famous  first 
series  of  Poems  and  Ballads,  published  in  1866,  to  A 
Channel  Passage  and  Other  Poems,  published  in  1 904. 
Between  these  two  dates  there  are  the  second  and  third 
series  of  Poems  and  Ballads,  the  Songs  before  Sunrise, 
the  Songs  of  Two  Nations,  the  Songs  of  the  Springtides, 
the  Studies  in  Song,  the  miscellaneous  contents  of  the 
Tristram  volume,  A  Century  of  Roundels,  A  Mid- 
summer Holiday  and  Other  Poems,  and  Astrophel  and 
Other  Poems.  There  is  also  The  Heptalogia;  or,  the 
Seven  against  Sense,  a  volume  of  parodies  anonymously 
published.  The  contents  of  the  present  selection  are 
found,  with  the  exception  of  the  choruses  from  Ata- 
lanta  and  Erechtheus,  in  the  thirteen  volumes  thus 
enumerated.  They  are  all  comprised  within  the  six 
volumes  of  the  Poetical  Works  in  the  new  uniform 
edition. 


ilntroDuctton  xxi 

The  first  and  most  obvious  thing  to  emphasize  about 
Swinburne's  poetry  is  its  astonishing,  its  almost  unex- 
ampled, command  of  the  poetical  resources  of  English 
speech.  While  it  must  be  admitted  that  to  Marlowe 
and  Shakespeare  and  Milton,  to  Coleridge  and  Shelley 
and  Tennyson,  we  owe  the  revelation  of  all  the  deeper 
secrets  of  the  inherent  possibilities  of  English  poetry,  it 
may  well  be  allowed  that  Swinburne  has  shown  him- 
self their  most  accomplished  disciple,  and  that  many  a 
secondary  secret  has  been  left  for  his  discovery,  many 
a  richc"  employment  of  measures  already  created  has 
been  left  for  him  to  make.  To  say  as  much  as  this  is 
hardly  to  do  him  justice,  for  it  is  only  the  bare  truth  to 
assert  that  no  other  English  poet  has  exhibited  his  mas- 
tery of  so  great  a  variety  of  forms  and  rhythms,  new 
and  old.  The  affluence  of  his  diction  and  the  wealth 
of  his  melody  have,  indeed,  operated  to  obscure  to  the 
view  of  superficial  readers  his  qualities  of  intellectual 
power  and  ethical  fervor.  Something  will  be  said  upon 
these  points  later  on;  at  present  we  are  concerned  with 
the  form  of  his  work  alone.  His  blank  verse  would  of 
itself  offer  a  study  of  almost  inexhaustible  fruitfulness, 
but  for  that  we  should  have  to  depend  chiefly  on  the 
dramas.  Something  has  already  been  said  of  his  use  of 
the  heroic  couplet.  His  imitations  of  classical  metres 
are  extraordinary  tours  de  force,  as  are  also  the  Greek 
and  Latin  verses  which  he  wrote  in  his  earlier  years. 
Incidentally,  it  may  be  mentioned  that  he  writes  French 
verse  as  if  to  the  manner  born.  He  has  worked  in 
almost  every  imaginable  form  of  English  lyrical  stanza, 
firom  the  simple  four-lined  type  with  alternate  rhymes 


xxii  31ntroUuction 

to  the  bewilderingly  complex  Pindaric  ode.  In  the 
forms  of  continuous  rhymed  verse  he  has  so  nearly  ex- 
hausted the  possible  combinations  that  his  successors 
will  be  hard  pressed  to  discover  any  that  are  at  once 
new  and  legitimate.  Rhymes  never  seem  to  fail  him; 
he  is  as  ready  with  half  a  dozen  as  with  a  pair,  and 
double  rhymes  come  easier  to  him  than  single  ones  to 
most  poets.  His  more  complicated  metres  and  strophes 
require  careful  study  before  they  disclose  all  their  se- 
crets, yet  their  great  difficulty  does  not  stiffen  them  or 
impede  the  free  motion  of  the  poet's  thought.  Mr. 
Saintsbury  speaks  of  his  planning  "sea  serpents  in  verse 
in  order  to  show  how  easily  and  gracefully  he  can  make 
them  coil  and  uncoil  their  enormous  length,"  of  his 
building  "mastodons  of  metre  that  we  may  admire  the 
proportion  and  articulation  of  their  mighty  limbs." 
<*  The  verse  does  not  merely  run,"  says  the  same  critic, 
"it  spins,  gyrating  and  revolving  in  itself  as  well  as 
proceeding  on  its  orbit,  the  wave  as  it  rushes  on  has 
eddies  and  backwaters  of  live  interior  movement.  All 
the  metaphors  and  similes  of  water,  light,  wind,  fire, 
all  the  modes  of  motion,  inspire  and  animate  this  aston- 
ishing poetry." 

The  streams  of  influence  that  have  converged  in  the 
creation  of  Swinburne's  poetry,  not  only  supplying  it 
with  melodious  suggestion,  but  also  providing  it  with 
illustrations  and  informing  it  with  ideals,  might  well  be 
made  the  subject  of  an  extended  study.  First  of  all, 
there  is  a  richer  heritage  of  national  poetry  than  the 
citizen  of  any  other  European  nation  may  boast,  a  heri- 
tage that  no  modern  Englishman  has  better  known  how 


iflntroDuction  xxiii 

to  appreciate  and  to  prize  than  Swinburne.  Fundamen- 
tally, he  is  an  English  poet,  in  sympathy  with  all  the 
deeper  manifestations  of  the  English  spirit,  and  his  joy 
in  the  work  of  Chaucer  and  Shakespeare,  of  Milton  and 
Shelley,  is  alike  genuine.  In  the  second  place,  he  drank 
copiously  of  the  springs  of  Greek  poetry  in  his  forma- 
tive years,  and  learned,  more  fully  perhaps  than  any 
other  great  English  poet,  that  "the  crown  of  all  songs 
sung"  in  the  modern  world  is  a  new  glory  upon  the 
brow  of  Athens,  that  hers  was  "  the  light  that  gave  the 
whole  world  light  of  old,"  and  that  Englishmen,  more 
than  most  other  moderns,  have  drawn  inspiration  from 
the  Greeks,  "the  fathers  of  their  spirits."  Hence  we 
find  in  Swinburne's  poetry,  besides  the  avowed  experi- 
ments in  Greek  forms,  many  subtle  evidences  of  Hel- 
lenic influence,  —  clarifying  the  expression  and  intensi- 
fying the  beauty  at  countless  points.  In  the  third  place, 
he  was  profoundly  affected  by  the  Hebraic  temper, 
both  the  spirit  of  the  Old  Testament  and  the  very 
cadences  of  the  Authorized  Version  finding  manifold 
echoes  in  his  verse.  In  the  fourth  place,  he  was  deeply 
influenced  by  the  poets  of  France  and  Italy.  French 
poetry,  indeed,  has  found  in  him  the  most  sympathetic 
of  modern  English  critics.  The  secrets  of  French  pros- 
ody, for  which  few  English  readers  have  an  ear,  offer 
no  mystery  to  his  delicate  rhythmic  sense,  and  he  has 
lived  in  familiar  and  loving  communion  with  French 
verse,  from  Villon  to  Verlaine.  What  this  source  of  in- 
spiration has  been  to  him  may  be  seen  in  his  tributes  to 
Gautier  and  Baudelaire,  and  in  his  pasans  sung  to  the 
glory  of  Victor  Hugo.    While  the  influence  of  Italian 


xxiv  31ntroDuction 

poetry  is  less  marked,  and,  in  the  case  of  Dante,  seems 
to  be  somewhat  perfunctory,  his  love  of  Italy  and  his 
espousal  of  her  national  cause  give  color  and  passion  to 
a  large  section  of  his  verse,  besides  providing  it  with  a 
specific  argument.  On  the  other  hand,  Germanic  influ- 
ences are  almost  wholly  missing  from  his  work,  and 
even  Goethe  seems  to  have  made  no  appeal  to  him. 
This  defect  of  sympathy  sets  a  negative  mark  upon  his 
work  which  calls  for  allowance  in  the  characterization. 
The  themes  of  Swinburne's  poetry  are  drawn  in 
great  variety  from  nature  and  the  works  of  man.  No 
poet  has  expressed  more  impressively  than  he  the  con- 
trast between  the  vexed  insignificance  of  man  and  the 
calm  sublimity  of  nature, — 

' '  O  strong  sun  !  O  sea  ! 
I  bid  not  you,  divine  things  !  comfort  me, 
I  stand  not  up  to  match  you  in  your  sight ; 
Who  hath  said  ye  have  mercy  toward  us,  ye  who  have  might  ?  " 

But  no  poet  has  also  more  proudly  matched  the  human 
spirit  against  all  the  material  immensities  which  it  con- 
templates, and  so  confidently  asserted  its  inherent  dig- 
nity and  indefectible  strength.  Not,  like  Byron,  seek- 
ing in  nature  an  anodyne  for  grief,  nor,  like  Coleridge 
and  Wordsworth,  disheartened  by  the  deeds  of  men, 
turning  to  her  for  renewal  of  the  spirit  and  strengthen- 
ing of  the  faith,  we  find  Swinburne  drawing  from  her 
from  the  first  the  elements  of  primal  strength,  and  glory- 
ing in  her  power  and  beauty.  Of  the  sea,  particularly, 
he  has  sung  in  rapturous  strains  that  no  other  English  poet 
can  match.  The  most  magnificent  lines  of  Tristram 
are  those  consecrated  to  the  "  sublime  sweet  sepul- 


31ntrot>uccion  xxv 

chre"  of  the  hapless  lovers,  and  the  consummation  of 
Erechtheus  is  in  the  sealing,  through  a  maiden's  sacri- 
fice, of  the  pact  whereby  the  sons  of  the  violet-crowned 
city  are  given  divine  assurance  that  their  descendants 
shall  forever 

"  Have  help  of  the  waves  that  made  war  on  their  morning. 
And  friendship  and  fame  of  the  sea," 

The  glory  of  the  sea  in  the  triumph  over  the  Persian  is 
sung  in  Athens  and  in  the  defeat  of  Spain  in  The  Ar- 
mada—  the  two  greatest  of  Swinburne's  odes.  In 
Thalassius  the  poet  calls  himself  a  sea-flower,  and  as 
such  recounts  his  spiritual  autobiography.  In  the  su- 
perb group  of  lyrics  By  the  North  Sea,  we  have  pic- 
tured every  mood  and  aspect  of  the  sea,  while  On  the 
Verge  touches  the  utmost  height  of  sublimity  as  it 
questions  the  unanswering  sea  concerning  the  soul  of 
man  and  the  eternal  mystery  of  human  fate. 

As  a  poet  of  nature,  we  feel  that  Swinburne's  in- 
spiration comes  from  intimate  communion  with  sea  and 
sun,  with  mountains  and  woods  and  stars,  while  as  a 
poet  of  man  his  work  is  largely  the  product  of  bookish 
influence;  the  contact  is  made  indirectly,  through  the 
medium  of  human  records,  philosophical  systems,  and 
works  of  literary  art.  In  this  sense  Morris  thought 
that  Swinburne's  poetry  was  too  "literary,"  and  there 
is  a  certain  justice  in  the  criticism.  Literature  is  cer- 
tainly one  of  the  main  themes  of  his  work,  not  in  prose 
alone,  for  the  number  of  his  poems  that  are  devoted  to 
the  praise  of  great  writers  is  very  large.  A  typical 
illustration  of  this  is  provided  by  his  series  of  twenty- 


xxvi  31ntrotiuction 

two  Sonnets  on  English  Dramatic  Poets,  which  char- 
acterize, one  by  one,  in  concise  and  discriminating 
terms,  the  entire  line  of  Elizabethan  dramatists.  His 
poetical  tributes  to  Chaucer,  Sidney,  Marlowe,  Shelley, 
Lamb,  Browning,  Baudelaire,  and  Gautier,  are  other 
notable  examples  of  this  section  of  his  work.  Many 
pieces  of  this  character  inscribed  to  his  contemporaries 
are  expressions  of  both  artistic  admiration  and  tender 
personal  affection.  The  generous  warmth  of  these  per- 
sonal poems  show  him  to  have  a  rare  genius  for  friend- 
ship. But  his  most  extraordinary  achievements  in  the 
glorification  of  other  poets  are  found  in  his  great  odes 
to  Victor  Hugo  and  Walter  Savage  Landor.  Here  he 
indulges  himself  in  "the  noble  pleasure  of  praising" 
to  his  heart's  content.  The  exuberance  of  the  poetical 
hero-worship  here  displayed  has  brought  upon  him  the 
charge  of  extravagance,  and  his  array  of  laudatory  terms 
is  sometimes  such  as  would  be  difficult  to  justify  in  the 
dry  light  of  the  critical  reason.  But  enthusiasm  of  this 
type  is  a  fine  and  inspiring  thing,  and,  if  he  does  over- 
emphasize the  critical  function  of  praise,  shall  it  not  be 
imputed  to  him  for  righteousness  in  an  age  when  the 
tendency  of  criticism,  and  of  literary  scholarship  in 
general,  runs  too  far  in  the  direction  of  historical  ex- 
planation and  dispassionate  analysis? 

Nor  are  the  poets  the  only  recipients  of  his  enthu- 
siastic laudation.  Throned  with  Hugo  and  Landor  in 
the  special  pantheon  of  his  idolatry  is  Giuseppe  Maz- 
zini,  the  apostle  of  the  regeneration  of  Italy.  In  help- 
ing us  to  understand  and  feel  the  supreme  spiritual  im- 
portance of  Mazzini's  devoted  labors  in  behalf  of  his 


5IntroDuction  xxvii 

country,  Swinburne  has  done  what  the  historians  have 
signally  failed  in  doing.  "It  is  well  for  the  world," 
says  Frederic  Myers,  **  that  the  representative,  for 
poetry  even  more  than  for  history,  of  the  last  great 
struggle  where  all  chivalrous  sympathies  could  range 
themselves  undoubtingly  on  one  side,  should  have  re- 
ceived a  crown  of  song  such  as  had  scarcely  before 
been  laid  at  the  feet  of  any  living  hero."  ]t  would  be 
difficult  to  find  anywhere  in  modern  poetry  a  worthier 
panegyric  of  a  life  of  pure  and  noble  endeavor  than  is 
embodied  in  the  beautiful  dedication  to  Mazzini  of  the 
Songs  before  Sunrise,  the  magnificent  psan  of  A  Song 
of  Italy,  and  the  exquisite  verses  written  for  the  Geno- 
ese monument.  Memorable  tributes  are  also  paid  to 
Louis  Blanc,  Richard  Wagner,  Aurelio  Saffi,  and  the 
Countess  Cairoli,  who  gave  four  sons  to  the  cause  of 
Italian  freedom.  Among  the  poems  of  more  purely 
personal  interest,  none  are  more  touching  and  tender 
than  those  which  serve  as  dedications  to  his  several 
volumes. 

The  political  happenings  of  the  last  half  of  the  nine- 
teenth century  found  in  Swinburne  a  keen  observer 
and  an  eager  partisan  of  every  righteous  cause;  at  least, 
of  every  cause  in  any  way  identified  with  the  freedom 
of  the  body  or  the  spirit  of  man.  The  two  movements 
which  enlisted  his  sympathies  most  passionately  were 
those  which  led  to  the  creation  of  United  Italy  and  the 
restoration  of  the  French  Republic.  To  the  former 
movement  we  owe,  not  only  the  personal  tributes  to 
its  heroes  already  mentioned,  but  also  the  whole  col- 
lection  of   Songs   before   Sunrise,   that   well-nigh   in- 


xxviii  ;5IntroDuctton 

comparable  outpouring  of  lyrical  beauty.  It  may  be 
doubted  if  within  the  limits  of  any  other  single  vol- 
ume of  English  poetry  there  may  be  found,  in  such 
spontaneity  of  flow  and  amplitude  of  stream,  such  rich 
and  varied  utterance,  such  ardor  of  love  and  scorn,  and 
such  expression  of  the  most  exalted  ethical  idealism. 
And  as  a  pendant  to  this  volume  we  have  the  raptur- 
ous Song  of  Italy,  hymning  the  splendor  of  the  sun 
at  last  arisen.  This  is  one  of  the  two  long  poems 
included  in  the  Songs  of  Two  Nations.  The  other 
is  the  stately  Ode  on  the  Proclamation  of  the  French 
Republic,  which  is  almost  entitled  to  rank  as  a  third 
in  the  company  of  Athens  and  The  Armada.  The 
twenty-four  sonnets  called  Dirae  fill  out  this  volume, 
and  their  name  is  a  very  literal  description  of  their 
contents.  They  are  curses  hurled  at  the  contemporary 
oppressors  of  French  and  Italian  liberty  —  Ferdinand  II 
of  Naples,  Pius  IX,  and  Louis  Napoleon  — ■  and 
carry  grim  irony,  stinging  satire,  and  fierce  invective 
to  the  utmost  permissible  limits,  if  not  beyond,  out- 
vying the  Chatiments  of  Victor  Hugo  in  their  terrific 
denunciation  of  that  modern  **  saviour  of  society," 
Napoleon  the  Little.  It  may  be  said  that  such  vehe- 
mence of  utterance  defeats  its  own  purpose,  that  a 
more  restrained  expression  would  also  be  more  effective. 
But  however  uncomfortably  we  may  be  stirred  by  the 
intensity  of  the  poet's  emotion,  it  must  be  observed 
that  his  lack  of  restraint  does  not  extend  to  the  artistic 
form  of  his  expression,  for  that  is  as  flawless  as  if  it 
were  concerned  with  the  gentlest  and  least  passionate 
of  themes.     And   "if   wrath"    thus    "embitter  the 


31ntroDuction  xxix 

sweet  mouth  of  song,"  there  are  nevertheless  many 
who,  considering  the  deep  wrongs  that  engaged  his 
eloquence,  will  find  in  the  poet's  own  closing  Apologia 
the  sufficient  justification  of  his  most  intemperate  speech. 
Swinburne  has  more  than  once  declared  himself  to 
be  a  republican,  yet  his  devotion  to  that  abstract  polit- 
ical idea  has  not  dimmed  his  patriotism  in  the  better 
sense.  He  is  clear-sighted  enough  to  realize  that  the 
EngHsh  monarchy  is  a  historical  inheritance  not  lightly 
to  be  done  away  with,  and  also  to  realize  that  Eng- 
land has  attained  the  highest  form  of  constitutional  free- 
dom, while  preserving  her  ancient  framework  of  govern- 
ment. He  does  not  hesitate,  any  more  than  did  Cole- 
ridge and  Wordsworth  in  their  earher  years,  to  censure 
England  for  her  sins  of  commission,  or  for  her  historical 
failures  to  rise  to  the  opportunities  thrown  in  her  path 
by  fate,  nor  does  he  fail  to  condemn  alike  the  excesses 
of  modern  toryism  and  the  compromises  of  modern 
liberalism  ;  but  for  all  that,  and  for  all  his  republican- 
ism, he  glories  in  the  national  record  as  a  whole,  and 
holds  unshaken  the  faith  that 

"  Where  the  footfall  sounds  of  England,  where  the  smile  of  Eng- 
land shines, 
Rings  the  tread  and  laughs  the   face  of  freedom,  fair  as  hope 

divines 
Days  to  be,  more  brave  than  ours  and  lit  by  lordlier  stars  for  signs. 


**  All  our  past  acclaims  our  future  ;  Shakespeare's  voice  and  Nel- 
son's hand, 

Milton's  faith  and  Wordsworth's  trust  in  this  our  chosen  and 
chainless  land, 

Bear  us  witness  :  come  the  world  against  her,  England  yet  shall 
stand. ' ' 


XXX  31ntroDuction 

Swinburne's  ideal  of  the  Republic  is  not  a  belief  in 
mob-rule  or  in  the  divine  mandate  of  every  popular 
impulse  ;  it  is  rather  the  ideal  of  Milton  and  Landoi 
and  Mazzini,  the  ideal  of  a  commonwealth  in  which  the 
people  shall  be  wise  enough  to  trust  those  whom  they 
have  exalted  to  leadership,  in  which  a  recognition  of 
the  duties  of  man  shall  be  held  of  more  importance 
than  a  clamorous  insistence  upon  his  rights.  Such  an 
ideal  may  be  approximately  realized  —  and  has  been  so 
realized  in  England  —  under  the  forms  of  monarchy, 
and  so,  ungrudgingly,  yet  in  no  spirit  of  servility,  the 
poet  has  sung  the  praises  of  the  past,  has  justified  the 
present  order  temporarily  existing,  and  has  joined  sin- 
cerely in  the  celebration  of  the  Queen's  Jubilee  and  other 
recent  occasions  of  national  rejoicing. 

Swinburne's  attitude  toward  the  fundamental  notions 
of  religious  belief  has  been  variously  described  as  that 
of  paganism,  pantheism,  and  pananthropism.  It  is  a 
pagan  attitude  only  in  so  far  as  he  has  given  us  a  vivid 
setting  forth  of  the  contrast  between  classical  and  Chris- 
tian ideals.  In  the  Hymn  to  Proserpine  and  The  Last 
Oracle,  still  more  in  the  two  Greek  tragedies,  he  has 
presented  the  pagan  point  of  view  with  so  marvellous 
a  degree  of  insight  and  penetrative  sympathy  that  some 
of  his  readers  have  taken  for  a  confession  of  faith  what 
is  no  more  than  a  study  in  dramatic  eifect.  A  real 
confession  of  faith,  no  doubt,  is  embodied  in  Hertha 
and  the  Hymn  of  Man,  and  those  who  wish  to  call  this 
faith  pantheistic  or  pananthropomorphic  are  welcome 
to  the  terms.  They  have  lost  whatever  terrors  they 
once  had  for  timid  minds,  and  now  move  in  the  best 


JntroDuction  xxxi 

theological  society.  Whatever  we  may  call  it,  Swin- 
burne's religion  is  that  of  one  who  resolutely  rejects  all 
dogmas  and  historical  creeds,  and  with  equal  earnest- 
ness clings  to  the  divine  idea  that  underlies  the  creeds 
and  bestows  upon  them  their  vitality.  He  draws  the 
same  sharp  contrast  that  is  drawn  by  Shelley  and  Hugo 
between  the  eternal  spirit  of  Christianity  and  its  histor- 
ical accretions.  Hugo  wrote  an  effective  reply.  To  the 
Bishop  Who  Called  Me  Atheist,  completely  turning  the 
tables  on  his  clerical  assailant,  and  Swinburne  might 
fairly  treat  his  own  critics  in  similar  fashion.  He  must 
be  a  blind  reader  who  cannot  see  that  even  the  scath- 
ing stanzas  of  Before  a  Crucifix  constitute  in  reality  a 
defence  of  the  Founder  of  Christianity  against  his  cari- 
caturists, — 

"  Because  of  whom  we  dare  not  love  thee  j 
Though  hearts  reach  back  and  memories  ache. 
We  cannot  praise  thee  for  their  sake." 

This  poet,  at  least,  is  of  those  who 

"  Change  not  the  gold  of  faith  for  dross 
Of  Christian  creeds  that  spit  on  Christ." 

It  is  only  the  barest  justice  to  apply  to  him  the  words 
which  Browning  wrote  of  Shelley  :  **  I  call  him  a  man 
of  religious  mind,  because  every  audacious  negative  cast 
up  by  him  against  the  Divine  was  interpenetrated  with 
a  mood  of  reverence  and  adoration,  —  and  because  I 
find  him  everywhere  taking  for  granted  some  of  the 
capital  dogmas  of  Christianity,  while  most  vehemently 
denying  their  historical  basement."  The  two  poems 
which  most  clearly  show  forth  his  larger  religious  out- 


xxxii  3IntroDuction 

iook  are  unquestionably  Hertha  and  the  Hymn  of  Man. 
In  them  we  have  the  expression  of  that  God-intoxicated 
conception  of  the  universe  which  penetrates  beneath 
the  distinction  of  subject  and  object,  the  distinction  even 
of  Creator  and  created,  and  rests  upon  the  idea  of  the 
underlying  unity,  the  idea  of  God  everywhere  imma- 
nent in  nature.  Hertha,  in  particular,  may  be  a  per- 
plexing poem  to  the  type  of  mind  which  finds  a  stumb- 
ling-block in  Emerson's  Brahma,  but  it  is  clear  enough 
in  its  meaning  to  those  who  know  their  Goethe  and  their 
Spinoza.  Swinburne  made  sport,  in  an  ingenious  parody, 
of  Tennyson's  The  Higher  Pantheism,  but  his  own 
pantheism  amounts  to  substantially  the  same  thing. 

The  bond  between  ethics  and  religion  is  vital  in  all 
systems  oi  thought  that  have  an  enduring  hold  upon 
the  minds  and  hearts  of  men.  And  all  poets  who  arouse, 
as  Swinburne  does,  the  deepest  of  our  religious  emo- 
tions, must  bring  fitting  words  to  bear  upon  the  con- 
duct of  life.  It  is  the  glory  of  the  great  English  poets 
of  the  nineteenth  century,  of  Shelley  and  Wordsworth, 
of  Tennyson  and  Browning  and  Arnold,  that  they  have 
met  this  obligation,  not  indeed  with  an  offensive  ob- 
trusion of  didacticism,  but  with  a  none  the  less  em- 
phatic pronouncement  in  favor  of  whatsoever  things  are 
lovely  and  of  good  report  in  human  endeavor.  Swin- 
burne, in  all  but  the  unripened  work  of  his  earliest 
years,  joins  himself  to  the  company  of  these  men,  and 
becomes  an  ethical  teacher  in  the  most  persuasive  and 
eloquent  sense.  The  essential  attributes  of  the  Chris- 
tian temper  receive  his  fullest  sympathy,  save  only  the 
meek  and  lowly  attitude,  upon  which  he  pours  out  the 


31ntroiJuction  xxxiil 

vials  of  his  scorn.  Like  Kant,  he  is  filled  with  awe  in 
contemplation  of  the  boundless  universe  and  of  the  soul 
of  man  alike,  and  the  notion  of  humility  does  not  com- 
port with  his  exalted  conception  of  man's  spiritual  pos- 
sibilities. His  attitude  is  that  of  Chapman,  holding  it 
unlawful  that  man  "  should  stoop  to  any  other  law  " 
than  that  laid  down  by  his  own  higher  nature,  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  offering  to  treat  with  his  Creator  upon  equal 
terms,  and  abating  no  jot  or  tittle  of  his  own  self-respect. 

"  A  creed  is  a  rod, 

And  a  crown  is  of  might ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit,  and  live  out  thy 
life  as  the  light." 

It  is  in  the  prelude  of  the  So?igs  before  Sunrise  that  we 
find  the  most  magnificent  expression  of  the  claims  of 
the  indomitable  human  spirit,  of  the  soul  that  stands 
erect  in  the  presence  of  all  adverse  fortunes,  and  bids 
defiance  to  all  malign  fates. 

"  Since  only  souls  that  keep  their  place 
By  their  own  light,  and  watch  things  roll, 
And  stand,  have  light  for  any  soul." 

This  proud  exaltation  of  the  full-statured  soul,  secure 
in  the  consciousness  of  its  own  strength,  is  the  key  to 
Swinburne's  ethics,  through  its  close  relation  to  his  con- 
ception of  duty  and  his  strenuous  demand  lor  complete 
sacrifice  of  self,  for  utter  and  absolute  devotion  to  the 
cause  of  man's  bodily  and  spiritual  freedom.  This  cate- 
gorical imperative  of  Swinburne's  ethics  finds  its  noblest 
embodiment  in  The  Pilgrims  and  Super  Flumina  Baby 


xxxiv  31ntroi)uctton 

lonis.  There  is  no  finer  ethical  message  in  all  English 
poetry  than  breathes  through  the  lines  of  these  two 
lofty  poems.  No  other  poet  has  forced  upon  us  with 
greater  impressiveness  what  Frederic  Myers  calls  **the 
resolve  that  even  if  there  be  no  moral  purpose  already 
in  the  world,  man  shall  put  it  there ;  that  even  if  all 
evolution  be  necessarily  truncated,  yet  moral  evolution, 
so  long  as  our  race  lasts,  there  shall  be ;  that  even  if 
man's  virtue  be  momentary,  he  shall  act  as  though  it 
were  an  eternal  gain."  No  foundation  for  the  ethical 
life  can  be  firmer  than  this,  for  it  rests  upon  the  very 
rock  of  human  nature,  and  does  not  need  to  be  but- 
tressed by  systems  or  creeds  or  imagined  supernatural 
sanctions.  It  was  an  inspiring  message  that  the  finer 
spirits  of  the  French  Revolution  bequeathed  as  a  legacy 
to  the  nineteenth  century  ;  is  not  the  message  equally 
inspiring  which  the  one  great  poet  left  living  at  the  close 
of  the  nineteenth  century  has  brought  with  his  own 
hands  to  the  twentieth  century  as  a  gift? 

Having  now  passed  in  rapid  review  the  leading  as- 
pects of  Swinburne's  poetry,  its  mastery  of  lyrical  form, 
the  influences  that  have  shaped  it,  and  the  essential 
themes  that  have  occupied  its  attention,  a  few  words 
may  be  given  to  certain  minor  features  that  are  needed 
to  complete  the  picture.  At  one  point  only  does  his 
work  come  close  to  the  common  interests  of  every-day 
domestic  life.  As  a  lover  of  children,  and  as  a  singer 
of  the  mystery  and  winsomeness  of  childhood,  he  ap- 
peals to  what  is  probably  his  widest  audience.  His 
ethical  philosophy,  his  political  passion,  and  his  tran- 
scendental envisagement  of  nature  are  upon  a  plane  so 


idntroDuction  xxxv 

lofty  as  to  leave  many  readers  unresponsive,  but  in 
childliood  he  has  a  theme  universally  attractive,  and  he 
has  treated  of  it  with  a  fragrance  and  tenderness  unsur- 
passed in  EngHsh  poetry.  A  certain  small  amount  of 
his  work  is  of  so  topical  a  character  that  its  interest 
lapsed  with  the  occasions  that  gave  rise  to  it,  and  no- 
thing but  its  extraordinary  cleverness  and  vigor  makes 
it  worthy  of  preservation.  His  verse  of  this  sort  is 
mainly  political,  and  political  verse  is  apt  to  lose  its 
point  when  men  have  ceased  to  be  excited  by  the  exi- 
gencies which  evoked  it.  Swinburne's  imitative  work 
is  so  remarkable  that  it  calls  for  a  special  word  of  men- 
tion besides  what  has  already  been  said  of  his  facile 
writing  of  Greek,  Latin,  and  French  verse,  and  his 
English  reproduction  of  classical  metres.  It  is  illus- 
trated by  his  translations  from  Aristophanes  and  Villon, 
by  his  copying  of  the  old  poetical  forms  of  Chaucerian 
tale,  miracle  play,  and  border  ballad,  and  by  the  pieces 
in  the  Heptalogia,  which  parody  with  diabolical  inge- 
nuity the  mannerisms  of  his  English  contemporaries. 
There  is  something  positively  uncanny  in  the  wizardry 
which  these  things  display,  and  in  this  many-sided  virtu- 
osity he  stands  alone  among  English  poets. 

The  foregoing  pages  have  set  forth  in  some  detail 
the  grounds  of  Swinburne's  title  to  a  place  among  the 
greater  poets  of  the  English  nineteenth  century.  His 
high  rank  among  them,  and  the  unique  present  isolation 
of  his  genius,  are  facts  now  so  generally  recognized  by 
competent  critics  that  they  hardly  admit  of  discussion. 
But  with  the  masses  of  readers  the  case  is  different, 
and  it  must  be  confessed  that  Swinburne  is  little  more 


xxxvi  31ntrot)uction 

than  a  name  to  countless  thousands  who  are  on  intimate 
terms  with  Tennyson  and  Browning.  Two  of  his  ear- 
liest -works  —  Atalanta  i?i  Calydon  and  the  famous  first 
collection  of  Poems  and  Ballads  —  are  widely  familiar; 
the  others  are  almost  unknown.  An  obvious  explanation 
of  this  singular  state  of  affairs  is  offered  by  the  fact  that 
his  works  have  been  published  in  many  small  and  ex- 
pensive volumes,  and  thus  made  practically  inaccessible 
to  the  larger  public.  A  complete  Tennyson  or  Brown- 
ing may  be  had  in  a  single  volume  at  a  moderate  price; 
a  complete  Swinburne  (counting  the  poetry  alone)  has 
hitherto  meant  the  purchase  of  more  than  a  score  of 
volumes  at  almost  prohibitive  cost.  Even  the  forth- 
coming collected  edition  will  occupy  eleven  volumes, 
and  will  not  do  much  toward  placing  the  whole  of 
Swinburne  in  the  hands  of  readers  in  general.  In  addi- 
tion to  this  very  practical  impediment,  another  quite  as 
serious  is  offered  by  the  too  poetical  character  of  his 
work.  This  may  seem  a  paradoxical  saying,  but  it  is 
the  simple  truth  that  comparatively  few  readers  of 
poetry  appreciate  it  for  its  own  sake.  Even  critics  are 
apt  to  concern  themselves  overmuch  with  the  acci- 
dentals of  poetry,  and  nine  readers  out  of  every  ten 
who  claim  to  find  enjoyment  in  the  poets  are  really 
interested  for  the  most  part  in  their  personality,  their 
teaching,  and  what  is  frequently  called  their  "message 
to  the  age."  A  great  deal  has  been  said  in  the  present 
Introduction  about  Swinburne's  ideas,  but  only  because 
these  ideas  are  embodied  in  forms  of  the  richest  literary 
art.  He  remains  primarily  a  poet  for  poets,  and  for 
those  frequent  lovers  of  poetry  who  have  some  degree 


;5IntroDuctton  xxxvii 

of  insight  into  the  severe  conditions  self-imposed  upon 
its  genuine  makers,  some  power  of  appreciating  poetical 
effects  apart  from  their  investiture  of  thought.  Now  in 
the  very  choice  of  his  themes  Swinburne  has  deliber- 
ately eschewed  the  striving  for  popular  applause.  Aside 
from  his  lovely  verses  about  children,  there  is  no  con- 
siderable group  of  poems  that  appeals  to  the  common 
instincts  of  domesticity.  He  has  written  nothing  of  the 
type  of  Tennyson's  Maud  and  Enoch  Arden  and  The 
Princess.  Although  the  passion  of  love  counts  for  much 
in  his  work,  it  is  not  the  form  of  love  that  Browning's 
Men  and  Women  brings  into  such  intimate  relations 
with  our  own  most  vivid  personal  experiences  ;  it  is 
rather  the  form  that  is  coupled  with  high  endeavor  and 
heroic  energy,  with  fateful  old-world  histories,  with 
Tristram  and  Yseult,  with  the  Queen  of  Scots,  with 
the  English  and  the  Lombard  Rosamunds.  This  choice 
of  themes,  combined  vv'ith  a  treatment  that  allows  al- 
most nothing  for  sentiment,  that  is  both  abstract  and 
austere,  is  not  calculated  to  bring  the  generality  of  read- 
ers into  intimacy  with  his  work  ;  it  requires  a  certain 
strenuousness  of  temper,  a  certain  detachment  from  the 
habitual  prosaic  plane  of  life,  to  catch  the  contagion  of 
his  spirit,  to  participate  in  his  pursuit  of  lofty  and  re- 
mote ideals.  Taking  all  these  things  into  account,  it  is 
small  wonder  that  he  should  be  no  more  popular  a  poet 
than  Milton,  that  the  phrases  of  his  mintage  should  not 
have  passed  into  general  currency,  that  the  winged 
words  of  his  song  should  not  have  become  widely  do- 
mesticated as  household  words. 

The  popular  estimate  of  Swinburne,  as  far  as  such 


xxxviii  31ntroliuctton 

a  thing  exists,  has  been  made  mostly  at  second  hand. 
It  is  a  composite  of  hearsay,  of  superficial  acquaintance 
with  a  few  of  the  strays  of  his  work,  and  of  a  legend 
based  upon  the  sensational  journalism  of  more  than  a 
generation  ago.  Into  this  estimate  only  a  small  and 
comparatively  unimportant  fraction  of  his  work  enters 
at  all ;  the  chief  bulk  of  his  writing,  including  nearly 
all  its  greatest  achievements,  simply  does  not  exist.  If 
the  average  glib  critic,  ready  to  dispose  of  Swinburne 
in  a  single  contemptuous  phrase,  be  closely  questioned, 
he  will  be  found  to  have  in  mind  Laus  Veneris,  Do- 
lores, and  a  few  other  juvenile  pieces.  But  ask  him  of 
Erechtheus  and  Bothtvell  znd.  Thalassius  and  the  Songs 
before  Sunrise  and  the  great  Odes,  and  you  shall  find 
him  ignorant  of  their  contents,  perhaps  of  their  very 
titles.  To  expose  in  detail  the  inadequacy  of  the  com- 
mon opinion  thus  based,  is  beyond  the  purpose  of  this 
essay.  The  selections  that  are  given  in  the  present  vol- 
ume may  be  trusted  to  perform  that  task  without  argu- 
ment. But  a  moment's  attention  must  be  given  to  the 
two  greatest  of  the  misconceptions  that  seem  to  attach  to 
Swinburne' s  work.  One  of  them  is  the  vox  et  praeterea 
nihil  theory,  the  notion  that  his  astounding  verbal 
mastery  is  a  cloak  for  the  concealment  of  intellectual 
poverty.  Now  if  anything  has  been  made  clear  in  the 
foregoing  pages  it  is  that  his  range  of  intellectual  inter- 
ests is  wider  than  that  of  most  poets,  that  in  dealing  with 
many  of  his  subjects  he  is  if  anything  overloaded  with  in- 
formation. Yet  the  fact  that  he  does  not  fling  his  learn- 
ing at  the  reader  in  undigested  lumps,  but  subordinates 
the  exhibition  to  the  strictest  law  of  artistic  expression. 


idntroDuction  xxxix 

becomes  a  pretext  for  charging  him  with  vagueness  and 
shallowness  of  thought,  which  is  surely  an  illustration 
of  what  is  called,  in  his  own  favorite  phrase,  "horny- 
eyed"  criticism.  A  certain  difFuseness  is  the  condition 
of  success  in  the  long  and  swinging  metres  which  best 
exemplify  his  powers,  but  when  working  in  closer  and 
severer  forms,  he  can  be  as  compact  as  Browning  or 
Tennyson.  The  other  popular  misconception  is  that 
which  makes  him  a  poet  of  passion  in  the  vulgar  accepta- 
tion of  the  term.  That  this  grotesque  notion  should 
still  prevail  is  a  direct  consequence  of  the  unfortunate 
manner  of  his  introduction  to  the  general  public.  It  is 
based  upon  a  few  pieces  only,  full  of  the  recklessness 
of  exuberant  youth,  contained  in  that  single  early  col- 
lection of  poems  of  which  he  himself  said  at  the  time 
of  its  publication,  — 

"The  youngest  were  born  of  boy's  pastime, 
The  eldest  are  young." 

And  so  to  many  people  the  poet  of  Thalassius  and  the 
Songs  before  Suiirise  still  stands  for  morbid  sensualism  ; 
the  poet  who  almost  more  than  any  of  his  fellow  singers 
exalts  spirit  above  sense,  and  transports  his  readers  into 
an  atmosphere  almost  too  rarefied  for  ordinary  mortals 
to  breathe,  remains  the  poet  of  unregulated  passion  and 
defiance  of  the  most  universally  accepted  ethical  sanc- 
tions. This  affords  a  striking  illustration  of  the  persist- 
ence of  an  irrational  prejudice,  of  the  difficulty  of 
destroying  a  legend  once  fixed  in  the  popular  imagina- 
tion. Passion  this  poet  has  without  doubt,  and  in  abund- 
ance, but  it  is  the  passion  of  the  intellect  rather  than 


xl  ^IntroUuction 

of  the  heart.  It  is  the  passion  of  Shelley's  Hymn  to 
Intellectual  Beauty  or  of  Arnold's  Empedocles  on  Etna. 
In  his  verse,  — 

"  Thin,  thin  the  pleasant  human  noises  grow, 
And  faint  the  city  gleams  ;  "  — 

we  seem  lifted  into  a  thinner  and  purer  air  than  invests 
our  daily  life,  and  brought  into  communion  with  the 
peaks  and  the  stars.  Nowhere  else  in  our  poetry,  ex- 
cept in  Wordsworth's  loftiest  flights,  do  we  get  this 
sense  of  spaciousness,  of  the  free  motion  of  the  spirit 
in  some  supramundane  sphere. 

When  the  comparative  claims  made  for  the  greater 
English  poets  of  the  nineteenth  century  shall  receive 
their  definite  adjudication  at  the  tribunal  of  criticism, 
there  can  be  little  doubt  that  to  Shelley,  Words- 
worth, and  Tennyson,  in  this  ultimate  reckoning, 
there  will  be  conceded  a  higher  place  than  that  al- 
lowed to  Swinburne.  Keats  and  Coleridge,  by  virtue 
of  a  few  perfect  poems.  Browning  and  Arnold,  bv  vir- 
tue of  a  special  appeal  to  the  intellectual  rather  than  the 
strictly  aesthetic  element  in  apprecianon,  may  also  be 
cherished  by  many  with  a  deeper  affection.  Some  may 
discover  in  Byron's  "superb  energy  of  sincerity  and 
strength  "  a  more  positive  inspiration  ;  some  may  recog- 
nize in  Landor's  severe  yet  wistful  restraint  a  finer 
example ;  some  may  even  find  in  the  artistic  passion  of 
Rossetti  or  in  the  golden  haze  of  Morris  a  surer  stim- 
ulus to  the  deeper  sensibilities  —  but  with  all  these,  at 
least,  Swinburne  will  be  found  fairly  comparable  in  the 
impressiveness  of  his  achievement  as  a  whole.  The  rich 


31ntrotiuction  xli 

diversity  of  that  achievement,  the  splendid  artistry  of 
its  performance,  and  the  high  and  austere  idealism 
which  informs  it,  are  qualities  that  may  safely  be  trusted 
to  save  it  from  the  oblivion  in  which  the  work  of  all  but 
the  greatest  poets  becomes  engulfed  soon  after  they  have 
passed  away  from  among  men. 


pttiatotv  Bott 


The  poems  in  this  volume  are  printed  complete.  The 
only  exceptions  to  this  rule  are  the  choruses  from  Ata- 
lanta  in  Calydon  and  Erechtheus,  and  the  sonnet  on 
Browning,  which  is  the  last  of  a  sequence  of  seven  writ- 
ten at  the  time  of  his  death.  The  editor  has  adopted  a 
classified,  instead  of  a  chronological,  arrangement  of  the 
poems  selected,  believing  this  to  be  the  better  of  the  two 
plans  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting  the  distinctive  aspects 
of  the  poet's  genius.  Swinburne's  work  does  not  fall  into 
periods,  nor  does  it  display  the  progressive  refinement  of 
art  which  would  make  the  date  of  a  poem  especially  sig- 
nificant. Between  the  poems  of  his  youth  and  those  of  his 
maturer  years  there  are  no  marked  differences  of  artistic 
finish.  There  are,  of  course,  a  gradual  ripening  of 
thought  and  chastening  of  manner  to  be  observed  as  we 
progress  from  his  first  volume  to  his  last,  yet  in  most 
cases  it  would  be  difficult  to  determine  from  internal  evi- 
dence  the  approximate  dates  of  the  poems.  Nevertheless, 
in  the  appended  Notes  each  poem  is  referred  to  the  vol- 
ume in  which  it  originally  appeared,  and  this  reference, 
taken  in  connection  with  the  Chronological  List  of  Writ- 
ings, provides  the  means  of  placing  the  poems  exactly 
where  they  belong. 


i 


Select  potm^  of  ^tijinburne 


ODES 


ATHENS 

AN    ODE 

Ere  from  under  earth  again  like  fire  the  violet 
kindle,  [Str.  i. 

Ere  the  holy  buds  and  hoar  on  olive-branches 
bloom, 
Ere  the  crescent  of  the  last  pale  month  of  winter 
dwindle. 
Shrink,  and  fall  as   falls  a  dead  leaf  on  the 
dead  month's  tomb. 
Round   the   hills  whose   heights   the  first-born 
olive-blossom  brightened. 
Round  the  city  brow-bound  once  with  violets 
like  a  bride. 
Up   from   under  earth  again  a  light  that  long 
since  lightened 
Breaks,  whence  all  the  world  took  comfort 
as  all  time  takes  pride. 


2        Select  lioems:  of  ^tombume 

Pride  have  all  men  in  their  fathers  that  were 
free  before  them, 
In  the  warriors  that  begot  us  free-born  pride 
have  we  : 
But  the  fathers  of  their  spirits,  how  may  men 
adore  them. 
With  what  rapture  may  we  praise,  who  bade 
our  souls  be  free  ? 
Sons  of  Athens  born  in  spirit  and  truth  are  all 
born  free  men  ; 
Most  of  all,  we,  nurtured  where  the  north  wind 
holds  his  reign  : 
Children  all  we  sea-folk  of  the  Salaminian  sea- 
men, 
Sons  of  them  that  beat  back  Persia  they  that 
beat  back  Spain. 
Since  the  songs  of  Greece  fell  silent,  none  like 
ours  have  risen  ; 
Since  the  sails  of  Greece  fell  slack,  no  ships 
have  sailed  like  ours  ; 
How  should  we  lament  not,  if  her  spirit  sit  in 


prison 


How  should  we  rejoice  not,  if  her  wreaths 
renew  their  flowers  ? 
All  the  world  is  sweeter,  if  the  Athenian  violet 
qr.icken  : 
All  the  world  is  brighter,  if  the  Athenian  sun 
return  : 


^tt)en0  3 

All  things  foul  on  earth  wax  fainter,  by  that 
sun's  light  stricken  : 
All    ill   growths    are   withered,  where    those 
fragrant  flower-lights  burn. 
All  the  wandering  waves  of  seas  with  all  their 
warring  waters 
Roll  the  record  on  for  ever  of  the  sea-fight 
there, 
When  the  capes  were  battle's  lists,  and  all  the 
straits  were  slaughter's. 
And  the  myriad  Medes  as  foam-flakes  on  the 
scattering  air. 
Ours  the  lightning  was  that  cleared  the  north 
and  lit  the  nations. 
But  the  light  that  gave  the  whole  world  light 
of  old  was  she  : 
Ours  an  age  or  twain,  but  hers  are  endless  gen- 
erations : 
All  the  world  is  hers  at  heart,  and  most  of  all 
are  we. 

Ye  that  bear  the  name  about  you  of  her  glory, 
Men  that  wear  the  sign  of  Greeks  upon  you 
sealed,  [Am.  i. 

Yours  is  yet  the  choice  to  write  yourselves  in 
story 
Sons  of  them  that  fought  the  Marathonian 
field. 


4        Select  poem0  of  ^tDinburne 

Slaves  of  no  man  were  ye,  said  your  warrior 
poet, 
Neither  subject  unto  man  as  underlings  : 
Yours  is  now  the  season  here  wherein  to  show  it. 
If  the  seed  ye  be  of  them  that  knew  not  kings. 
If  ye   be  not,  swords  nor  words    alike    found 
brittle 
From  the  dust  of  earth  to  raise  you  shall  pre- 
vail : 
Subject  swords  and  dead  men's  words  may  stead 
you  little, 
If  their  old  king-hating  heart  within  you  fail. 
If  your   spirit   of  old,  and  not  your  bonds,  be 
broken. 
If    the    kingless    heart    be    molten    in    your 
breasts. 
By  what  signs  and  wonders,  by  what  word  or 
token, 
Shall  ye  drive  the  vultures  from  your  eagles' 
nests  ? 
All    the    gains  of  tyrants  Freedom  counts  for 
losses ; 
Nought  of  all  the  work  done  holds  she  worth 
the  work. 
When  the  slaves  whose  faith  is  set  on  crowns 
and  crosses 
Drive    the   Cossack    bear    against    the   tiger 
Turk. 


Neither  cross  nor  crown  nor  crescent  shall  ye 
bow  to, 
Nought  of  Araby  nor  Jewry,  priest  nor  king  : 
As  your  watchword  was  of  old,  so  be  it  now 
too  : 
As  from  lips  long  stilled,  from  yours  let  heal- 
ing spring. 
Through  the  fights  of  old,  your  battle-cry  was 
healing. 
And  the  Saviour  that  ye  called  on  was  the 
Sun  : 
Dawn  by  dawn  behold  in  heaven  your  God,  re- 
vealing 
Light   from  darkness  as  when  Marathon  was 
won. 
Gods  were  yours  yet  strange  to  Turk  or  Galilean, 
Light  and  Wisdom  only  then  as  gods  adored  : 
Pallas   was    your    shield,   your    comforter    was 
Paean, 
From  your  bright  world's  navel  spake  the  Sun 
your  Lord. 

Though  the  names  be  lost,  and  changed  the 
signs  of  Light  and  Wisdom  be,      [^P-  i- 

By  these  only  shall  men  conquer,  by  these  only 
be  set  free  : 

When  the  whole  world's  eye  was  Athens,  these 
were  yours,  and  theirs  were  ye. 


6        Select  poem0  of  ^toinburne 

Light  was  given  you  of  your  wisdom,  light  ye 

gave  the  world  again  : 
As  the  sun  whose  godhead  lightened  on  her  soul 

was  Hellas  then  : 
Yea,  the  least  of  all  her  children  as  the  chosen 

of  other  men. 
Change  your  hearts  not  with  your  garments,  nor 

your  faith  with  creeds  that  change  : 
Truth  was   yours,  the    truth   which  time   and 

chance  transform  not  nor  estrange : 
Purer  truth  nor  higher  abides  not  in  the  reach 

of  time's  whole  range. 
Gods  are  they  in  all  men's  memories  and  for  all 

time's  periods. 
They  that  hurled  the  host  back  seaward  which 

had  scourged  the  sea  with  rods : 
Gods  for  us  are  all  your  fathers,  even  the  least 

of  these  as  gods. 
In  the  dark  of  days  the  thought  of  them  is  with 

us,  strong  to  save. 
They  that  had   no  lord,  and  made  the   Great 

King  lesser  than  a  slave  ; 
They  that  rolled  all  Asia  back  on  Asia,  broken 

like  a  wave. 
No  man's  men  were  they,  no  master's  and  no 

God's  but  these  their  own  ; 
Gods  not  loved  in  vain  nor  served  amiss,  nor  all 

yet  overthrown: 


0tl)en0  7 

Love  of  country,  Freedom,  Wisdom,  Light,  and 

none  save  these  alone. 
King  by  king  came  up  against  them,  sire  and 

son,  and  turned  to  flee  : 
Host  on  host  roared  westward,  mightier  each 

than  each,  if  more  might  be : 
Field  to  field  made  answer,  clamorous  like  as 

wave  to  wave  at  sea. 
Strife  to  strife  responded,  loud  as  rocks  to  clan- 
gorous rocks  respond 
Where  the  deep  rings  wreck  to  seamen  held  in 

tempest's  thrall  and  bond. 
Till  when  war's  bright  yvork  was  perfect  peace 

as  radiant  rose  beyond  : 
Peace  made  bright  with  fruit  of  battle,  stronger 

made  for  storm  gone  down. 
With  the  flower  of  song  held  heavenward   for 

the  violet  of  her  crown 
Woven  about  the  fragrant  forehead  of  the  fos- 

tress  maiden's  town. 
Gods  arose  alive  on  earth  from  under  stroke  of 

human  hands  : 
As  the  hands  that  wrought  them,  these  are  dead, 

and  mixed  with  time's  dead  sands : 
But  the  godhead  of  supernal  song,  though  these 

may  stand  not,  stands. 
Pallas  is  not,  Phoebus  breathes  no  more  in  breath- 
ing brass  or  gold  : 


8        $>elect  poems  of  ^toinbume 

Clytaemnestra  towers,  Cassandra  wails,  for  ever : 
Time  is  bold. 

But  nor  heart  nor  hand  hath  he  to  unwrite  the 
scriptures  writ  of  old. 

Dead  the  great  chryselephantine  God,  as  dew 
last  evening  shed  : 

Dust  of  earth  or  foam  of  ocean  is  the  symbol  of 
his  head  : 

Earth  and  ocean  shall  be  shadows  when  Prome- 
theus shall  be  dead. 

Fame  around  her  warriors  living  rang  through 
Greece  and  lightened,  [Str.  z. 

Moving  equal  with  their  stature,  stately  with 
their  strength  : 
Thebes  and  Lacedaemon  at  their  breathing  pre- 
sence brightened, 
Sense  or  sound  of  them  filled  all  the  live  land's 
breadth  and  length. 
All  the  lesser  tribes  put  on  the  pure  Athenian 
fashion, 
One  Hellenic  heart  was  from  the  mountains 
to  the  sea : 
Sparta's  bitter  self  grew  sweet  with  high  half- 
human  passion, 
And   her  dry  thorns  flushed  aflower  in  strait 
Thermopylae. 
Fruitless  yet  the  flowers  had  fallen,  and  all  the 
deeds  died  fruitless, 


Save  that  tongues  of  after  men,  the  children 
of  her  peace, 
Took  the  tale  up  of  her  glories,  transient  else 
and  rootless. 
And  in  ears  and  hearts  of  all  men  left  the 
praise  of  Greece. 
Fair   the  war-time   was  when   still,  as  beacon 
answering  beacon. 
Sea  to  land  flashed  fight,  and  thundered  note 
of  wrath  or  cheer ; 
But  the  strength  of  noonday  night  hath  power 
to  waste  and  weaken. 
Nor  may  light  be  passed  from  hand  to  hand 
of  year  to  year 
If  the  dying  deed  be  saved  not,  ere  it  die  for 
ever 
By  the  hands  and  lips  of  men  more  wise  than 
years  are  strong ; 
If  the  soul  of  man  take  heed  not  that  the  deed 
die  never. 
Clothed  about  with  purple  and  gold  of  story, 
crowned  with  song. 
Still  the  burning  heart  of  man  and   boy  alike 
rejoices, 
Hearing  words  which  made  it  seem  of  old  for 
all  who  sang 
That  their  heaven   of  heavens  waxed   happier 
when  from  free  men's  voices 


10       Select  poem0  of  ^toinbume 

Well-heloved  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton  rang. 
Never    fell    such    fragrance    from   the   flower- 
month's  rose-red  kirtle 
As  from  chaplets  on  the  bright  friends'  brows 
who  slew  their  lord  : 
Greener   grew  the  leaf  and   balmier  blew   the 
flower  of  myrtle 
When  its  blossom  sheathed  the  sheer  tyran- 
nicidal  sword. 
None   so    glorious    garland    crowned  the   feast 
Panathenaean 
As  this   wreath  too   frail  to    fetter  fast    the 
Cyprian  dove  : 
None  so  fiery  song  sprang  sunwards  annual  as 
the  paean 
Praising   perfect  love  of  friends  and  perfect 
country's  love. 

Higher  than  highest  of  all  those  heavens  where- 
from  the  starry  \^Ant.  a. 

Song  of  Homer  shone  above  the  rolling  fight, 
Gleams  like  spring's  green  bloom  on  boughs  all 
gaunt  and  gnarry 
Soft  live  splendour  as  of  flowers  of  foam  in 
flight, 
Glows  a  glory  of  mild-winged  maidens  upward 
mounting 
Sheer  through  air  made  shrill  with  strokes  of 
smooth  swift  wings 


Round  the  rocks  beyond  foot's  reach,  past  eye- 
sight's counting, 
Up  the  cleft  where  iron  wind  of  winter  rings 
Round  a   God    fast  clenched  in  iron    jaws  of 
fetters. 
Him  who  culled  for  man  the  fruitful  flower 
of  fire, 
Bared  the  darkling  scriptures  writ  in  dazzling 
letters. 
Taught  the  truth  of  dreams  deceiving  men's 
desire. 
Gave   their    water-wandering    chariot-seats    of 
ocean 
Wings,  and  bade  the  rage  of  war-steeds  champ 
the  rein, 
Showed  the  symbols  of  the  wild  birds'  wheeling 
motion. 
Waged  for  man's  sake  war  with  God  and  all 
his  train. 
Earth,  whose  name  was  also  Righteousness,  a 
mother 
Many-named   and    single-natured,  gave  him 
breath 
Whence  God's  wrath  could  wring  but  this  word 
and  none  other  — 
lie  may  smite  me^  yet  he  shall  not  do  to  death. 
Him  the  tongue  that  sang  triumphant  while  tor- 
mented 


12       ^flrct  poentflf  of  ^toinbume 

Sang  as  loud  the  sevenfold  storm  that  roared 
erewhile 
Round  the  towers  of  Thebes  till  wrath  might 
rest  contented  : 
Sang  the  flight  from  smooth  soft-sanded  banks 
of  Nile, 
When  like  mateless  doves  that  fly  from  snare  or 
tether 
Came  the  suppliants  landwards  trembhng  as 
they  trod, 
And  the  prayer  took  wing  from  all  their  tongues 
together  — 
King  of  kings ^  most  holy  of  holies^  blessed  God. 
But  what  mouth  may  chant  again,  what  heart 
may  know  it. 
All  the  rapture  that  all  hearts  of  men  put  on 
When  of  Salamis  the  time-transcending  poet 
Sang,  whose  hand  had  chased  the  Mede  at 
Marathon  ? 

Darker  dawned  the  song  with  stormier  wings 

above  the  watch-fire  spread  [Ep.  2. 

Whence  from   Ida  toward  the  hill  of  Hermes 

leapt  the  light  that  said 
Troy  was  fallen,  a  torch  funereal  for  the  king's 

triumphal  head. 
Dire  indeed  the  birth  of  Leda's  womb  that  had 

God's  self  to  sire 


0tl)enfi!  13 

Bloomed,  a  flower  of  love  that   stung  the  soul 

with  fangs  that  gnaw  like  fire  : 
But  the  twin-born  human-fathered  sister-flower 

bore  fruit  more  dire. 
Scarce  the  cry  that  called  on  airy  heaven  and  all 

swift  winds  on  wing, 
Wells  of  river-heads,  and   countless   laugh   of 

waves  past  reckoning, 
Earth  which  brought  forth  all,  and  the  orbed 

sun  that  looks  on  everything, 
Scarce  that  cry  fills  yet  men's  hearts  more  full 

of  heart-devouring  dread 
Than  the  murderous  word  said  mocking,  how 

the  child  whose  blood  he  shed 
Might  clasp  fast  and  kiss  her  father  where  the 

dead  salute  the  dead. 
But  the  latter  note  of  anguish  from  the  lips  that 

mocked  her  lord, 
When  her  son's  hand  bared  against  the  breast 

that  suckled  him  his  sword, 
How  might  man  endure,  O  i^schylus,  to  hear 

it  and  record  ? 
How  might  man  endure,  being  mortal  yet,  O 

thou  most  highest,  to  hear  ? 
How  record,  being    born  of  woman  ?     Surely 

not  thy  Furies  near. 
Surely  this  beheld,  this  only,  blasted  hearts  to 

death  with  fear. 


14       Select  Ij^otma  of  ^fcoinburne 

Not  the  hissing  hair,  nor  flakes  of  blood  that 
oozed  from  eyes  of  fire, 

Nor  the  snort  of  savage  sleep  that  snuffed  the 
hungering  heart's  desire 

"Where  the  hunted  prey  found  hardly  space  and 
harbour  to  respire  j 

She  whose  likeness  called  them  —  "  Sleep  ye, 
ho  ?   what  need  of  you  that  sleep  ?  " 

(Ah,  what  need  indeed,  where  she  was,  of  all 
shapes  that  night  may  keep 

Hidden  dark  as  death  and  deeper  than  men's 
dreams  of  hell  are  deep  ?) 

She  the  murderess  of  her  husband,  she  the  hunt- 
ress of  her  son. 

More  than  ye  was  she,  the  shadow  that  no  God 
withstands  but  one, 

Wisdom  equal-eyed  and  stronger  and  more 
splendid  than  the  sun. 

Yea,  no  God  may  stand  betwixt  us  and  the 
shadows  of  our  deeds. 

Nor  the  light  of  dreams  that  lighten  darkness, 
nor  the  prayer  that  pleads. 

But  the  wisdom  equal-souled  with  heaven,  the 
light  alone  that  leads. 

Light  whose  law  bids  home  those  childless  chil- 
dren of  eternal  night, 

Soothed  and  reconciled  and  mastered  and  trans- 
muted in  men's  sight 


^t\)tns  15 

Who  behold  their  own  souls,  clothed  with  dark- 
ness once,  now  clothed  with  light. 

King  of  kings  and  father  crowned  of  all  our 
fathers  crowned  of  yore, 

Lord  of  all  the  lords  of  song,  whose  head  all 
heads  bow  down  before, 

Glory  be  to  thee  from  all  thy  sons  in  all  tongues 
evermore. 

Rose  and  vine  and  olive  and  deep  ivy-bloom 
entwining  [Str.-^. 

Close  the  goodliest  grave  that  e'er  they  close- 
liest  might  entwine 
Keep  the  wind  from  wasting  and  the  sun  from 
too  strong  shining 
Where  the  sound  and  light  of  sweetest  songs 
still  float  and  shine. 
Here  the  music  seems  to  illume  the  shade,  the 
light  to  whisper 
Song,  the  flowers  to  put  not  odours  only  forth, 
but  words 
Sweeter  far  than  fragrance  :  here  the  wandering 
wreaths  twine  crisper 
Far,  and  louder  far  exults  the  note  of  all  wild 
birds. 
Thoughts  that  change  us,  joys  that  crown  and 
sorrows  that  enthrone  us, 
Passions  that  enrobe  us  with  a   clearer    air 
than  ours. 


1 6       &t\tct  poems;  of  ^toinburnc 

Move  and  breathe  as  living  things  beheld  round 
white  Colonus, 
Audibler    than    melodies    and    visibler    than 
flowers. 
Love,  in   fight  unconquered,  Love,  with  spoils 
of  great  men  laden, 
Never  sang  so  sweet  from  throat  of  woman 
or  of  dove : 
Love,  whose  bed  by  night  is  in  the  soft  cheeks 
of  a  maiden. 
And  his  march  is  over  seas,  and  low  roofs 
lack  not  Love ; 
Nor  may  one  of  all  that  live,  ephemeral  or  eter- 
nal. 
Fly  nor  hide  from  Love ;  but  whoso  clasps 
him  fast  goes  mad. 
Never  since  the  first-born  year  with  flowers  first- 
born grew  vernal 
Such  a  song  made  listening  hearts  of  lovers 
glad  or  sad. 
Never  sounded  note   so  radiant  at  the   rayless 
portal 
Opening  wide  on  the  all-concealing  lowland 
of  the  dead 
As   the   music   mingling,   when   her   doomsday 
marked  her  mortal. 
From  her  own  and  old  men's  voices  round  the 
bride's  way  shed. 


^t\)tnfi  17 

Round  the  grave  her  bride-house,  hewn  for  end- 
less habitation, 
Where,  shut  out  from  sunshine,  with  no  bride- 
groom by,  she  slept ; 
But  beloved  of  all  her  dark  and  fateful  genera- 
tion, 
But  with  all  time's  tears  and  praise  besprinkled 
and  bewept  : 
Well-beloved  of  outcast  father  and  self-slaugh- 
tered mother. 
Born,  yet  unpolluted,  of  their  blind  incestuous 
bed  ; 
Best-beloved  of  him   for  whose  dead  sake  she 
died,  her  brother. 
Hallowing  by  her  own  life's  gift  her  own  born 
brother's  head ; 

Not  with  wine  or  oil  nor  any  less  libation 

Hallowed,    nor    made    sweet    with    humbler 
perfume's  breath  ;  [y^m.  3. 

Not  with  only  these  redeemed  from  desecration. 
But  with  blood  and  spirit  of  life  poured  forth 
to  death  ; 
Blood  unspotted,  spirit  unsullied,  life  devoted, 
Sister  too  supreme  to  make  the  bride's  hope 
good. 
Daughter  too  divine  as  woman  to  be  noted. 
Spouse  of  only  death  in  mateless  maidenhood. 


1 8       Select  :|poent0  of  ^toinburne 

Yea,  in   her  was    all  the   prayer   fulfilled,  the 
saying 
All  accomplished  —  Would  that  fate  would  let 
me  wear 
Hallowed  innocence  of  words  and  all  deeds^  weigh- 
ing 
Well  the  laws  thereof  begot  on  holier  air, 
Far  on  high  sublimely  stablished,  whereof  only 
Heaven   is  father ;    nor    did   birth    of  mortal 
mould 
Bring  them  forth,  nor  shall  oblivion  lull  to  lonely 
Slumber.    Great  in  these  is  God,  and  grows  not 
old. 
Therefore  even  that  inner  darkness  where  she 
perished 
Surely  seems  as  holy  and  lovely,  seen  aright, 
As  desirable  and  as  dearly  to  be  cherished. 
As  the  haunt  closed  in  with  laurels  from  the 
light, 
Deep  inwound  with  olive  and  wild  vine  inwoven. 
Where  a  godhead  known  and  unknown  makes 
men  pale. 
But  the  darkness  of  the  twilight  noon  is  cloven 
Still  with  shrill  sweet  moan  of  many  a  night- 
ingale. 
Closer  clustering  there  they  make  sweet  noise 
together. 
Where  the  fearful  gods  look  gentler  than  our 
fear. 


^tljensf  19 

And  the  grove  thronged  through  with  birds  of 
holiest  feather 
Grows  nor  pale  nor  dumb  with  sense  of  dark 
things  near. 
There  her  father,  called  upon  with  signs  of  wonder. 
Passed  with  tenderest  words  away  by  ways 
unknown. 
Not  by  sea-storm  stricken  down,  nor  touched  of 
thunder. 
To  the  dark  benign  deep  underworld,  alone. 

Third  of  three  that  ruled  in  Athens,  kings  with 
sceptral  song  for  staff,  [£>.  3 

Gladdest  heart  that  God  gave  ever  milk  and  wine 
of  thought  to  quaff, 

Clearest  eye  that  lightened  ever  to  the  broad 
lip's  lordliest  laugh. 

Praise  be  thine  as  theirs  whose  tragic  brows  the 
loftier  leaf  engirds 

For  the  live  and  lyric  lightning  of  thy  honey- 
hearted  words. 

Soft  like  sunny  dewy  wings  of  clouds  and  bright 
as  crying  of  birds  ; 

Full  of  all  sweet  rays  and  notes  that  make  of 
earth  and  air  and  sea 

One  great  light  and  sound  of  laughter  from  one 
great  God's  heart,  to  be 

Sign  and  semblance  of  the  gladness  of  man's  life 
where  men  breathe  free. 


20       Select  Ij^otmi  of  ^ininbume 

With    no  Loxian  sound  obscure  God   uttered 

once,  and  all  time  heard, 
All  the  soul  of  Athens,  all  the  soul  of  England, 

in  that  word  : 
Rome  arose  the  second  child  of  freedom  :  north- 
ward rose  the  third. 
Ere  her  Boreal  dawn  came  kindling  seas  afoam 

and  fields  of  snow, 
Yet  again,  while  Europe  groaned  and  grovelled, 

shone  like  suns  aglow 
Doria  splendid  over  Genoa,  Venice  bright  with 

Dandolo. 
Dead  was  Hellas,  but  Ausonia  by  the  light  of 

dead  men's  deeds 
Rose  and  walked  awhile  alive,  though  mocked 

as  whom  the  fen-fire  leads 
By  the  creed-wrought  faith  of  faithless  souls  that 

mock  their  doubts  with  creeds. 
Dead  are  these,  and  man  is  risen  again  :    and 

haply  now  the  three 
Yet    coequal    and    triune    may  stand  in   story, 

marked  as  free 
By  the  token  of  the  washing  of  the  waters  of 

the  sea. 
Athens  first  of  all  earth's  kindred  many-tongued 

and  many-kinned 
Had  the  sea  to  friend  and  comfort,  and  for  kins- 
man had  the  wind  : 


^tl)enflf  21 

She   that  bare  Columbus  next :  then  she  that 

made  her  spoil  of  Ind. 
She  that  hears  not  what  man's  rage  but  only 

what  the  sea-wind  saith  : 
She  that  turned  Spain's  ships  to  cloud-wrack  at 

the  blasting  of  her  breath, 
By  her  strengths  of  strong-souled  children  and  of 

strong  winds  done  to  death. 
North  and  south  the  Great  King's  galleons  went 

in  Persian  wise  :  and  here 
She,   with  ^schylean    music  on  her  lips  that 

laughed  back  fear. 
In  the  face  of  Time's  grey  godhead  shook  the 

splendour  of  her  spear. 
Fair  as  Athens  then  with  foot  upon  her  foe- 
man's  front,  and  strong 
Even  as  Athens  for  redemption  of  the  world 

from  sovereign  wrong. 
Like  as  Athens  crowned  she  stood  before  the 

sun  with  crowning  song. 
All  the  world  is  theirs  with  whom  is  freedom  : 

first  of  all  the  free. 
Blest    are    they  whom  song  has  crowned  and 

clothed  with  blessing  :  these  as  we, 
These  alone  have  part  in  spirit  with  the  sun  that 

crowns  the  sea. 


22       Select  poentfif  of  ^toinbume 
THE  ARMADA 


I 
I 

England,  mother  born   of  seamen,  daughter 

fostered  of  the  sea. 
Mother  more  beloved  than  all  who  bear  not  all 
their  children  free, 
Reared  and  nursed  and  crowned  and  cherished 

by  the  sea-wind  and  the  sun, 
Sweetest  land  and  strongest,  face  most  fair 
and  mightiest  heart  m  one. 
Stands    not    higher    than    when    the    centuries 
known  of  earth  were  less  by  three. 
When  the   strength    that    struck    the  whole 
world  pale  fell  back  from  hers  undone. 

II 

At  her  feet  were  the  heads  of  her  foes  bowed 

down,  and  the  strengths  of  the  storm  of 

them  stayed. 
And    the  hearts   that  were   touched    not    with 

mercy    with    terror    were    touched   and 

amazed  and  affrayed  : 
Yea,  hearts  that  had  never  been  molten  with 

pity  were  molten  with  fear  as  with  flame, 


And  the  priests  of  the  Godhead  whose  temple  U 

hell,  and  his  heart  is  of  iron  and  fire, 
And  the  swordsmen  that  served  and  the  seamen 

that  sped  them,  whom  peril  could  tame 

not  or  tire. 
Were  as  foam  on  the  winds  of  the  waters  of 

England  which  tempest  can  tire  not  or 

tame. 

Ill 

They  were  girded  about  with  thunder,  and  light- 
ning came  forth   of  the   rage  of  their 

strength. 
And  the  measure  that   measures  the  wings  of 

the  storm  was  the  breadth  of  their  force 

and  the  length  : 
And  the  name  of  their  might  was  Invincible, 

covered  and  clothed  with  the  terror  of 

God  ; 
With  his  wrath  were  they  winged,  with  his  love 

were  they  fired,  with  the  speed  of  his 

winds  were  they  shod  ; 
With  his  soul  were  they  filled,  in  his  trust  were 

they  comforted  :  grace  was  upon  them 

as  night. 
And   faith  as  the  blackness   of   darkness  :    the 

fume  of  their  balefires  was   fair  in  his 

sight, 


24       ^rlfct  ipoentfif  of  ^toinburnr 

The  reek  of  them  sweet  as  a  savour  of  myrrh 

in  his  nostrils  :  the  world  that  he  made, 
Theirs  was  it  by  gift  of  his  servants  :  the  wind, 

if  they  spake  in  his  name,  was  afraid. 
And   the  sun  was  a  shadow  before  it,  the  stars 

were  astonished  with  fear  of  it :  fire 
Went  up  to  them,  fed  with  men  living,  and  lit 

of  men's  hands  for  a  shrine  or  a  pyre ; 
And  the  east  and  the  west  wind  scattered  their 

ashes  abroad,  that  his  name  should  be 

blest 
Of  the  tribes  of  the  chosen  whose  blessings  are 

curses  from  uttermost  east  unto  west. 


II 

I 
Hell  for  Spain,  and  heaven  for  England,  —  God 

to  God,  and  man  to  man, — 
Met  confronted,  light  with   darkness,  life  with 
death  :   since  time  began. 
Never  earth  nor  sea  beheld  so  great  a  stake 

before  them  set. 
Save  when  Athens  hurled  back  Asia  from  the 
lists  wherein  they  met ; 
Never  since  the  sands  of  ages  through  the  glass 
of  history  ran 
Saw  the  sun   in   heaven  a  lordlier  day  than 
this  that  lights  us  yet. 


II 

For  the   light    that   abides    upon   England,  the 

glory  that  rests  on  her  godlike  name, 
The  pride  that  is  love  and  the  love  that  is  faith, 

a  perfume  dissolved  in  flame, 
Took  fire  from  the   dawn  of  the  fierce  July 

when  fleets  were  scattered  as  foam 
And  squadrons  as  flakes  of  spray  ;  when  galleon 

and  galliass  that  shadowed  the  sea 
Were  swept  from  her  waves  like  shadows  that 

pass  with  the  clouds  they  fell  from,  and 

she 
Laughed  loud  to  the  wind  as  it  gave  to  her 

keeping  the  glories  of  Spain  and  Rome. 

Ill 
Three  hundred  summers  have  fallen  as  leaves 

by  the  storms  in  their  season  thinned, 
Since  northward  the  war-ships  of  Spain  came 

sheer    up    the   way   of   the    south-west 

wind  : 
Where  the  citadel  cliffs  of  England  are  flanked 

with  bastions  of  serpentine, 
Far  off  to  the  windward  loomed  their  hulls,  an 

hundred  and  twenty-nine, 
All  filled  full  of  the  war,  full-fraught  with  battle 

and  charged  with  bale ; 
Then   store-ships  weighted  with   cannon  ;  and 

all  were  an  hundred  and  fifty  sail- 


26       Select  ^poenifif  of  ^tuinbumc 

The  measureless  menace  of  darkness  anhungered 
with  hope  to  prevail  upon  light, 

The  shadow  of  death  made  substance,  the  pre- 
sent and  visible  spirit  of  night, 

Came,  shaped  as  a  waxing  or  waning  moon  that 
rose  with  the  fall  of  day, 

To  the  channel  where  couches  the  Lion  in  guard 
of  the  gate  of  the  lustrous  bay. 

Fair  England,  sweet  as  the  sea  that  shields  her, 
and  pure  as  the  sea  from  stain. 

Smiled,  hearing  hardly  for  scorn  that  stirred  her 
the  menace  of  saintly  Spain. 

Ill 
I 

''They  that  ride  over  ocean  wide  with  hempen 

bridle  and  horse  of  tree," 
How  shall  they  in   the   darkening  day  of  wrath 

and  anguish  and  fear  go  free  ? 
How  shall  these  that  have  curbed  the  seas  not 

feel  his  bridle  who  made  the  sea  ? 

God  shall  bow  them  and  break  them  now  :  for 
what  is  man  in  the  Lord  God's  sight  ? 

Fear  shall  shake  them,  and  shame  shall  break, 
and  all  the  noon  of  their  pride  be  night : 

These  that  sinned  shall  the  ravening  wind  of 
doom  bring  under,  and  judgment  smite. 


England  broke  from  her  neck  the  yoke,  and 
rent  the  fetter,  and  mocked  the  rod  : 

Shrines  of  old  that  she  decked  with  gold  she 
turned  to  dust,  to  the  dust  she  trod : 

What  is  she,  that  the  wind  and  sea  should  fight 
beside  her,  and  war  with  God  ? 

Lo,  the  cloud  of  his  ships  that  crowd  her  chan- 
nel's inlet  with  storm  sublime, 

Darker  far  than  the  tempests  are  that  sweep  the 
skies  of  her  northmost  clime ; 

Huge  and  dense  as  the  walls  that  fence  the  se- 
cret darkness  of  unknown  time. 

Mast  on  mast  as  a  tower  goes  past,  and  sail  by 
sail  as  a  cloud's  wing  spread  ; 

Fleet  by  fleet,  as  the  throngs  whose  feet  keep 
time  with  death  in  his  dance  of  dread ; 

Galleons  dark  as  the  helmsman's  bark  of  old 
that  ferried  to  hell  the  dead. 

Squadrons  proud  as  their  lords,  and  loud  with 
tramp  of  soldiers  and  chant  of  priests  ; 

Slaves  there  told  by  the  thousandfold,  made  fast 
in  bondage  as  herded  beasts  ; 

Lords  and  slaves  that  the  sweet  free  waves  shall 
feed  on,  satiate  with  funeral  feasts. 


28       §>elfct  l|Doem0  of  ^iumburne 

Nay,  not  so  shall  it  be,  they  know ;  their  priests 
have  said  it ;  can  priesthood  lie  ? 

God  shall  keep  them,  their  God  shall  sleep  not : 
peril  and  evil  shall  pass  them  by  : 

Nay,  for  these  are  his  children ;  seas  and  winds 
shall  bid  not  his  children  die. 

II 

So  they  boast  them,  the  monstrous  host  whose 
menace  mocks  at  the  dawn  :  and  here 

They  that  wait  at  the  wild  sea's  gate,  and  watch 
the  darkness  of  doom  draw  near. 

How  shall  they  in  their  evil  day  sustain  the 
strength  of  their  hearts  for  fear  ? 

Full  July  in  the  fervent  sky  sets  forth  her  twen- 
tieth of  changing  morns  : 

Winds  fall  mild  that  of  late  waxed  wild  :  no  pre- 
sage whispers  or  wails  or  warns  : 

Far  to  west  on  the  bland  sea's  breast  a  sailing 
crescent  uprears  her  horns. 

Seven  wide  miles  the  serene  sea  smiles  between 
them  stretching  from  rim  to  rim : 

Soft  they  shine,  but  a  darker  sign  should  bid  not 
hope  or  belief  wax  dim  : 

God's  are  these  men,  and  not  the  sea's  :  their 
trust  is  set  not  on  her  but  him. 


tD^lje  ^mtaDa  29 

God's  ?  but  who  is  the  God  whereto  the  prayers 
and  incense  of  these  men  rise  ? 

What  is  he,  that  the  wind  and  sea  should  fear 
him,  quelled  by  his  sunbright  eyes  ? 

What,  that  men  should  return  again,  and  hail 
him  Lord  of  the  servile  skies  ? 

Hell's  own  flame  at  his  heavenly  name  leaps 
higher  and  laughs,  and  its  gulfs  rejoice  : 

Plague  and  death  from  his  baneful  breath  take 
life  and  lighten,  and  praise  his  choice : 

Chosen  are  they  to  devour  for  prey  the  tribes 
that  hear  not  and  fear  his  voice. 

Ay,  but  we  that  the  wind  and  sea  gird  round 
with  shelter  of  storms  and  waves 

Know  not  him  that  ye  worship,  grim  as  dreams 
that  quicken  from  dead  men's  graves : 

God  is  one  with  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  land  that 
nursed  us,  the  love  that  saves. 

Love  whose  heart  is  in  ours,  and  part  of  all 
things  noble  and  all  things  fair ; 

Sweet  and  free  as  the  circling  sea,  sublime  and 
kind  as  the  fostering  air ; 

Pure  of  shame  as  is  England's  name,  whose 
crowns  to  come  are  as  crowns  that  were 


30      Select  l^otms  of  ^toinburne 

IV 
I 

But  the  Lord  of  darkness,  the  God  whose  love 

is  a  flaming  fire, 
The  master  whose  mercy  fulfils  wide  hell  till  its 

torturers  tire, 
He  shall  surely  have  heed  of  his  servants  who 

serve  him  for  love,  not  hire. 

They  shall  fetter  the  wing  of  the  wind  whose 
pinions  are  plumed  with  foam : 

For  now  shall  thy  horn  be  exalted,  and  now 
shall  thy  bolt  strike  home  j 

Yea,  now  shall  thy  kingdom  come.  Lord  God 
of  the  priests  of  Rome. 

They  shall  cast  thy  curb  on  the  waters,  and 
bridle  the  waves  of  the  sea : 

Then  shall  say  to  her,  Peace,  be  still :  and  still- 
ness and  peace  shall  be  : 

And  the  winds  and  the  storms  shall  hear  them, 
and  tremble,  and  worship  thee. 

Thy  breath  shall  darken  the  morning,  and  wither 

the  mounting  sun  ; 
And  the  daysprings,  frozen  and  fettered,  shall 

know  thee,  and  cease  to  run  j 


turtle  ^rmana  31 

The  heart  of  the  world  shall  feel  thee,  and  die, 
and  thy  will  be  done. 

The  spirit  of  man  that  would  sound  thee,  and 

search  out  causes  of  things, 
Shall  shrink  and  subside  and  praise  thee :  and 

wisdom,  with  plume-plucked  wings. 
Shall  cower  at  thy  feet  and  confess  thee,  that 

none  may  fathom  thy  springs. 

The  fountains  of  song  that  await  but  the  wind 

of  an  April  to  be 
To  burst  the  bonds  of  the  winter,  and  speak 

with  the  sound  of  a  sea. 
The  blast  of  thy  mouth  shall  quench  them  :   and 

song  shall  be  only  of  thee. 

The  days  that  are  dead  shall  quicken,  the  sea- 
sons that  were  shall  return  ; 

And  the  streets  and  the  pastures  of  England,  the 
woods  that  burgeon  and  yearn. 

Shall  be  whitened  with  ashes  of  women  and 
children  and  men  that  burn. 

For  the  mother  shall  burn  with  the  babe  sprung 

forth  of  her  womb  in  fire. 
And  bride  with  bridegroom,  and  brother  with 

sister,  and  son  with  sire ; 


32       Select  poems  of  ^toinburne 

And  the  noise  of  the  flames  shall  be  sweet  in 
thine  ears  as  the  sound  of  a  lyre. 

Yea,  so  shall  thy  kingdom  be  stablished,  and  so 

shall  the  signs  of  it  be  : 
And  the  world  shall  know,  and  the  wind  shall 

speak,  and  the  sun  shall  see. 
That  these  are  the  works  of  thy  servants,  whose 

works  bear  witness  to  thee. 

II 

But  the  dusk  of  the  day  falls  fruitless,  whose 
lights  should  have  lit  them  on  : 

Sails  flash  through  the  gloom  to  shoreward, 
eclipsed  as  the  sun  that  shone : 

And  the  west  wind  wakes  with  dawn,  and  the 
hope  that  was  here  is  gone. 

Around  they  wheel  and  around,  two  knots  to  the 

Spaniard's  one. 
The  wind-swift  warriors  of  England,  who  shoot 

as  with  shafts  of  the  sun. 
With  fourfold  shots  for  the  Spaniard's,  that  spare 

not  till  day  be  done. 

And  the  wind  with  the  sundown  sharpens,  and 

hurtles  the  ships  to  the  lee, 
And  Spaniard  on  Spaniard  smites,  and  shatters,     « 

and  yields  ;  and  we,  ■ 


^f)t  ^rtnaua  33 

Ere  battle  begin,  stand  lords  of  the  battle, 
acclaimed  of  the  sea. 

And   the   day  sweeps  round  to  the  nightward  ; 

and  heavy  and  hard  the  waves 
Roll  in  on  the  herd  of  the  hurtling  galleons  ; 

and  masters  and  slaves 
Reel  blind  in  the  grasp  of  the  dark  strong  wind 

that  shall  dig  their  graves. 

For  the  sepulchres  hollowed  and  shaped  of  the 
wind  in  the  swerve  of  the  seas, 

The  graves  that  gape  for  their  pasture,  and 
laugh,  thrilled  through  by  the  breeze, 

The  sweet  soft  merciless  waters,  await  and  are 
fain  of  these. 

As  the  hiss  of  a  Python  heaving  in  menace  of 

doom  to  be 
They  hear  through  the  clear  night  round  them, 

whose  hours  are  as  clouds  that  flee. 
The  whisper  of  tempest  sleeping,  the  heave  and 

the  hiss  of  the  sea. 

But  faith  is  theirs,  and  with  faith  are  they  girded 

and  helmed  and  shod  : 
Invincible  are  they,  almighty,  elect  for  a  sword 

and  a  rod ; 


34       Select  poemsf  of  ^fcoinburne 

Invincible  even  as  their  God  is  omnipotent, 
infinite,  God. 

In  him  is  their  strength,  who  have  sworn  that 
his  glory  shall  wax  not  dim  : 

In  his  name  are  their  war-ships  hallowed  as 
mightiest  of  all  that  swim  : 

The  men  that  shall  cope  with  these,  and  conquer, 
shall  cast  out  him. 

In  him  is  the  trust  of  their  hearts  ;  the  desire  of 

their  eyes  is  he  ; 
The  light  of  their  ways,  made  lightning  for  men 

that  would  fain  be  free : 
Earth's  hosts  are  with  them,  and  with  them  is 

heaven  :  but  with  us  is  the  sea. 


V 

I 

And  a  day  and  a  night  pass  over ; 

And  the  heart  of  their  chief  swells  high  ; 
For  England,  the  warrior,  the  rover. 
Whose  banners  on  all  winds  fly, 
Soul-stricken,  he  saith,  by  the  shadow  of  death, 
holds  off  him,  and  draws  not  nigh. 

And  the  wind  and  the  dawn  together 
Make  in  from  the  gleaming  east : 


^^t  ^rmaua  35 

And  fain  of  the  wild  glad  weather 

As  famine  is  fain  of  feast, 
And   fain  of  the  fight,  forth    sweeps   in    its 
might  the  host  of  the  Lord's  high  priest. 

And  lightly  before  the  breeze 

The  ships  of  his  foes  take  wing  : 
Are  they  scattered,  the  lords  of  the  seas? 
Are  they  broken,  the  foes  of  the  king  ? 
And  ever  now  higher  as   a   mounting   fire  the 
hopes  of  the  Spaniard  spring. 

And  a  windless  night  comes  down  : 
And  a  breezeless  morning,  bright 
With  promise  of  praise  to  crown 
The  close  of  the  crowning  fight. 
Leaps  up   as  the   foe's  heart   leaps,  and   glows 
with  lustrous  rapture  of  light. 

And  stinted  of  gear  for  battle 

The  ships  of  the  sea's  folk  lie, 
Unwarlike,  herded  as  cattle. 

Six  miles  from  the  foeman's  eye 
That  fastens  as  flame  on  the  sight  of  them  tame 
and  ofFenceless,  and  ranged  as  to  die. 

Surely  the  souls  in  them  quail, 

They  are  stricken  and  withered  at  heart, 


36       Select  poems  of  ^tombume 

When  in  on  them,  sail  by  sail, 
Fierce  marvels  of  monstrous  art. 
Tower  darkening  on   tower  till  the  sea-winds 
cower   crowds   down   as  to   hurl   them 
apart. 

And  the  windless  weather  is  kindly, 
And  comforts  the  host  in  these ; 
And  their  hearts  are  uplift  in  them  blindly, 
And  blindly  they  boast  at  ease 
That  the  next  day's  fight  shall  exalt  them,  and 
smite  with  destruction  the  lords  of  the 
seas. 

II 

And  lightly  the  proud  hearts  prattle. 
And  lightly  the  dawn  draws  nigh. 
The  dawn  of  the  doom  of  the  battle 
When  these  shall  falter  and  fly; 
No  day  more  great  in  the  roll  of  fate  filled  ever 
with  fire  the  sky. 

To  fightward  they  go  as  to  feastward. 
And  the  tempest  of  ships  that  drive 
Sets  eastward  ever  and  eastward. 
Till  closer  they  strain  and  strive; 
And  the  shots  that  rain  on  the  hulls  of  Spain 
are  as  thunders  afire  and  alive. 


^\)t  ;amtai>a  37 

And  about  them  the  blithe  sea  smiles 

And  flashes  to  windward  and  lee 
Round  capes  and  headlands  and  isles 
That  heed  not  if  war  there  be  ; 
Round  Sark,  round  Wight,  green  jewels  of  light 
in  the  ring  of  the  golden  sea. 

But  the  men  that  within  them  abide 

Are  stout  of  spirit  and  stark 
As  rocks  that  repel  the  tide, 
As  day  that  repels  the  dark ; 
And   the   light   bequeathed    from    their   swords 
unsheathed  shines  lineal  on  Wight  and 
on  Sark. 

And  eastward  the  storm  sets  ever, 

The  storm  of  the  sails  that  strain 
And  follow  and  close  and  sever 
And  lose  and  return  and  gain  ; 
And  English  thunder  divides  in  sunder  the  holds 
of  the  ships  of  Spain. 

Southward  to  Calais,  appalled 

And  astonished,  the  vast  fleet  veers; 
And  the  skies  are  shrouded  and  palled. 
But  the  moonless  midnight  hears 
And   sees  how   swift  on  them  drive  and  drift 
strange  flames  that  the  darkness  fears. 


38        Select  |poettt0  of  ^iuinburne 

They  fly  through  the  night  from  shoreward, 

Heart-stricken  till  morning  break, 
And  ever  to  scourge  them  forward 

Drives  down  on  them  England's  Drake, 
And  hurls  them  in  as  they  hurtle  and  spin  and 
stagger,  with  storm  to  wake. 

VI 


And  now  is  their  time  come  on  them.  For 
eastward  they  drift  and  reel, 

With  the  shallows  of  Planders  ahead,  with 
destruction  and  havoc  at  heel, 

With  God  for  their  comfort  only,  the  God 
whom  they  serve  ;  and  here 

Their  Lord,  of  his  great  loving-kindness,  may 
revel  and  make  good  cheer ; 
Though  ever  his  lips  wax  thirstier  with  drink- 
ing, and  hotter  the  lusts  in  him  swell ; 

For  he  feeds  the  thirst  that  consumes  him  with 
blood,  and  his  winepress  fumes  with  the 
reek  of  hell. 

II 

Fierce  noon  beats  hard  on  the  battle ;  the 
galleons  that  loom  to  the  lee 

Bow  down,  heel  over,  uplifting  their  shelter- 
less hulls  from  the  sea  : 


tE^lje  ^rmaDa  39 

From  scuppers  aspirt  with  blood,  from  guns 
dismounted  and  dumb, 

The  signs  of  the  doom  they  looked  for,  the 
loud  mute  witnesses  come. 

They  press  with  sunset  to  seaward  for  com- 
fort :   and  shall  not  they  find  it  there  ? 
O  servants  of  God  most  high,  shall  his  winds  not 
pass  you  by,  and  his  waves  not  spare  ? 

Ill 

The  wings  of  the  south-west  wind  are  widened  ; 

the  breath  of  his  fervent  lips. 
More   keen    than   a   sword's  edge,  fiercer  than 

fire,  falls  full  on  the  plunging  ships. 
The  pilot  is  he  of  their  northward  flight,  their 

stay  and  their  steersman  he ; 
A    helmsman    clothed   with    the    tempest,   and 

girdled  with  strength  to  constrain  the  sea. 
And    the    host    of   them    trembles   and   quails, 

caught  fast  in  his  hand  as  a  bird  in  the 

toils ; 
For  the  wrath   and  the  joy  that   fulfil  him   are 

mightier  than  man's,  whom  he  slays  and 

spoils. 
And  vainly,  with  heart  divided  in   sunder,  and 

labour  of  wavering  will. 
The  lord  of  their  host  takes  counsel  with  hope 

if  haply  their  star  shine  still, 


40       Select  |3oettt0  of  ^iombume 

If  haply  some  light  be  left  them  of  chance  to 

renew  and  redeem  the  fray ; 
But  the  will  of  the  black  south-wester  is  lord 

of  the  councils  of  war  to-day. 
One  only  spirit   it  quells  not,  a  splendour  un- 

darkened  of  chance  or  time  ; 
Be  the  praise  of  his  foes  with  Oquendo  for  ever, 

a  name  as  a  star  sublime. 
But  here  what  aid  in  a  hero's  heart,  what  help 

in  his  hand  may  be  ? 
For  ever  the  dark  wind  whitens  and  blackens 

the  hollows  and  heights  of  the  sea. 
And    galley    by    galley,   divided    and    desolate, 

founders  ;  and  none  takes  heed. 
Nor  foe  nor  friend,  if  they  perish  ;  forlorn,  cast 

off  in  their  uttermost  need, 
They   sink   in    the   whelm    of   the   waters,   as 

pebbles    by    children     from    shoreward 

hurled. 
In  the  North   Sea's   waters  that  end  not,  nor 

know  they  a  bourn  but  the  bourn  of  the 

world. 
Past  many   a   secure   unavailable   harbour,  and 

many  a  loud  stream's  mouth. 
Past  Humber  and  Tees  and  Tyne  and  Tweed, 

they  fly,  scourged  on  from  the  south. 
And  torn  by  the  scourge  of  the  storm-wind  that 

smites  as  a  harper  smites  on  a  lyre. 


I 


^\)t  0rmaua  41 

And   consumed   of  the  storm  as   the  sacrifice 

loved  of  their  God  is   consumed  with 

fire, 
And  devoured  of  the  darkness  as  men  that  are 

slain   in   the   fires   of  his   love  are   de- 
voured. 
And  deflowered  of  their  lives  by  the  storms,  as 

by  priests  is  the  spirit  of  life  deflowered. 
For  the  wind,  of  its  godlike  mercy,  relents  not, 

and  hounds  them  ahead  to  the  north, 
With  English  hunters  at  heel,  till  now  is  the 

herd  of  them  past  the  Forth, 
All  huddled  and  hurtled  seaward ;  and  now  need 

none  wage  war  upon  these. 
Nor  huntsmen   follow  the  quarry  whose  fall  is 

the  pastime  sought  of  the  seas. 
Day  upon  day  upon  day  confounds  them,  with 

measureless  mists  that  swell, 
With  drift  of  rains  everlasting  and  dense  as  the 

fumes  of  ascending  hell. 
The  visions  of  priest  and  of  prophet  beholding 

his  enemies  bruised  of  his  rod 
Beheld  but  the  likeness  of  this  that  is  fallen  on 

the  faithful,  the  friends  of  God. 
Northward,  and  northward,  and  northward  they 

stagger  and  shudder  and  swerve  and  flit, 
Dismantled  of  masts  and  of  yards,  with  sails  by 

the  fangs  of  the  storm-wind  split. 


42       Select  poem0  of  ^iumburne 

But  north  of  the  headland  whose  name  is  Wrath, 

by  the  wrath  or  the  ruth  of  the  sea, 
They  are  swept  or  sustained  to  the  westward, 

and  drive   through  the  rollers  aloof  to 

the  lee. 
Some    strive    yet   northward   for   Iceland,   and 

perish  :    but    some   through   the   storm- 
hewn  straits 
That   sunder  the  Shetlands   and   Orkneys   are 

borne  of  the  breath  which  is  God's  or 

fate's : 
And  some,  by  the  dawn  of  September,  at  last 

give  thanks  as  for  stars  that  smile, 
For  the  winds  have  swept  them  to  shelter  and 

sight  of  the  cliffs  of  a  Catholic  isle. 
Though   many   the   fierce   rocks    feed   on,  and 

many  the  merciless  heretic  slays, 
Yet  some  that  have  laboured  to  land  with  their 

treasure  are  trustful,  and  give  God  praise. 
And  the  kernes  of  murderous  Ireland,  athirst 

with  a  greed  everlasting  of  blood, 
Unslakable  ever  with  slaughter  and  spoil,  rage 

down  as  a  ravening  flood. 
To  slay  and  to  flay  of  their  shining  apparel  their 

brethren  whom  shipwreck  spares ; 
Such  faith  and  such  mercy,  such  love  and  such 

manhood,  such  hands  and  such  hearts 

are  theirs. 


Short    shrift    to   her    foes    gives    England,  but 

shorter    doth    Ireland    to    friends ;    and 

worse 
Fare  they  that  came  with  a  blessing  on  treason 

than  they  that  come  with  a  curse. 
Hacked,  harried,  and  mangled  of  axes  and  skenes, 

three  thousand  naked  and  dead 
Bear  witness  of  Catholic  Ireland,  what  sons  of 

what  sires  at  her  breasts  are  bred. 
Winds  are  pitiful,  waves  are  merciful,  tempest 

and  storm  are  kind  : 
The  waters  that  smite  may  spare,  and  the  thunder 

is  deaf,  and  the  lightning  is  blind  : 
Of  these   perchance  at  his   need   may  a  man, 

though  they  know  it  not,  yet  find  grace  ; 
But  grace,  if  another  be  hardened  against  him, 

he  gets  not  at  this  man's  face. 
For  his  ear  that  hears  and  his  eye  that  sees  the 

wreck  and  the  wail  of  men. 
And  his  heart  that  relents  not  within  him,  but 

hungers,   are  like  as  the  wolf's   in   his 

den. 
Worthy  are  these  to  worship  their  master,  the 

murderous  Lord  of  lies. 
Who  hath  given  to  the  pontiff  his  servant  the 

keys  of  the  pit  and  the  keys  of  the  skies. 
Wild  famine  and  red-shod  rapine  are  cruel,  and 

bitter  with  blood  are  their  feasts  j 


44       Select  ^poemsf  of  ^iombume 

But  fiercer  than  famine  and  redder  than  rapine 
the  hands  and  the  hearts  of  priests. 

God,  God  bade  these  to  the  battle ;  and  here, 
on  a  land  by  his  servants  trod. 

They  perish,  a  lordly  blood-ofFering,  subdued  by 
the  hands  of  the  servants  of  God. 

These  also  were  fed  of  his  priests  with  faith, 
with  the  milk  of  his  word  and  the 
wine ; 

These  too  are  fulfilled  with  the  spirit  of  dark- 
ness that  guided  their  quest  divine. 

And  here,  cast  up  from  the  ravening  sea  on  the 
mild  land's  merciful  breast. 

This  comfort  they  find  of  their  fellows  in  wor- 
ship ;  this  guerdon  is  theirs  of  their 
quest. 

Death  was  captain,  and  doom  was  pilot,  and 
darkness  the  chart  of  their  way  ; 

Night  and  hell  had  in  charge  and  in  keeping  the 
host  of  the  foes  of  day. 

Invincible,  vanquished,  impregnable,  shattered, 
a  sign  to  her  foes  of  fear, 

A  sign  to  the  world  and  the  stars  of  laughter, 
the  fleet  of  the  Lord  lies  here. 

Nay,  for  none  may  declare  the  place  of  the  ruin 
wherein  she  lies  ; 

Nay,  for  none  hath  beholden  the  grave  whence 
never  a  ghost  shall  rise. 


tE^lje  ^rmaDa  45 

The  fleet  of  the  foemen  of  England  hath  found 
not  one  but  a  thousand  graves  ; 

And  he  that  shall  number  and  name  them  shall 
number  by  name  and  by  tale  the  waves. 

VII 
I 

Sixtus,  Pope  of  the  Church  whose  hope  takes 
flight  for  heaven  to  dethrone  the  sun, 

Philip,  king  that  wouldst  turn  our  spring  to 
winter,  blasted,  appalled,  undone. 

Prince  and  priest,  let  a  mourner's  feast  give 
thanks  to  God  for  your  conquest  won. 

England's  heel  is  upon  you  :  kneel,  O  priest, 
O  prince,  in  the  dust,  and  cry, 

"  Lord,  why  thus  ?  art  thou  wroth  with  us  whose 
faith  was  great  in  thee,  God  most  high  ? 

Whence  is  this,  that  the  serpent's  hiss  derides 
us  ?    Lord,  can  thy  pledged  word  lie  ? 

"  God  of  hell,  are  its  flames  that  swell  quenched 
now  for  ever,  extinct  and  dead  ? 

Who  shall  fear  thee  ?  or  who  shall  hear  the 
word  thy  servants  who  feared  thee  said  ? 

Lord,  art  thou  as  the  dead  gods  now,  whose 
arm  is  shortened,  whose  rede  is  read  ? 


46        g)elect  l^otm&  of  ^tombume 

"  Yet  we  thought  it  was  not  for  nought  thy  word 
was  given  us,  to  guard  and  guide  : 

Yet  we  deemed  that  they  had  not  dreamed  who 
put  their  trust  in  thee.    Hast  thou  lied  ? 

God  our  Lord,  was  the  sacred  sword  we  drew 
not  drawn  on  thy  Church's  side  ? 

"  England  hates  thee  as  hell's  own  gates  ;  and 

England    triumphs,    and     Rome     bows 

down  : 
England  mocks  at  thee  ;   England's  rocks  cast 

off  thy  servants  to  drive  and  drown  : 
England  loathes  thee ;  and   fame  betroths  and 

plights  with  England  her  faith  for  crown. 

"  Spain  clings  fast  to  thee  ;  Spain,  aghast  with 
anguish,  cries  to  thee  ;  where  art  thou  ? 

Spain  puts  trust  in  thee  ;  lo,  the  dust  that  soils 
and  darkens  her  prostrate  brow ! 

Spain  is  true  to  thy  service  ;  who  shall  raise  up 
Spain  for  thy  service  now  ? 

"  Who  shall  praise  thee,  if  none  may  raise  thy 
servants  up,  nor  affright  thy  foes  ? 

Winter  wanes,  and  the  woods  and  plains  forget 
the  likeness  of  storms  and  snows  : 

So  shall  fear  of  thee  fade  even  here  :  and  what 
shall  follow  thee  no  man  knows." 


X!^\)t  :annaDa  47 

Lords  of  night,  who  would  breathe  your  blight 

on  April's  morning  and  August's  noon, 
God  your  Lord,  the  condemned,  the  abhorred, 

sinks  hellward,   smitten   with   deathlike 

swoon  : 
Death's  own  dart  in  his  hateful  heart  now  thrills, 

and  night  shall  receive  him  soon. 

God  the  Devil,  thy  reign  of  revel  is  here  for 

ever  eclipsed  and  fled  : 
God  the  Liar,  everlasting  fire  lays  hold  at  last 

on  thee,  hand  and  head  : 
God    the    Accurst,    the  consuming  thirst   that 

burns  thee  never  shall  here  be  fed. 

II 

England,  queen  of  the  waves  whose  green  in- 
violate girdle  enrings  thee  round, 

Mother  fair  as  the  morning,  where  is  now  the 
place  of  thy  foemen  found  ? 

Still  the  sea  that  salutes  us  free  proclaims  them 
stricken,  acclaims  thee  crowned. 

Times  may  change,  and  the  skies  grow  strange 
with  signs  of  treason  and  fraud  and  fear  : 

Foes  in  union  of  strange  communion  may  rise 
against  thee  from  far  and  near : 

Sloth  and  greed  on  thy  strength  may  feed  as 
cankers  waxing  from  year  to  year. 


48       Select  poent0  of  ^iDinbume 

Yet,  though  treason  and  fierce  unreason  should 
league  and  lie  and  defame  and  smite, 

We  that  know  thee,  how  far  below  thee  the 
hatred  burns  of  the  sons  of  night. 

We  that  love  thee,  behold  above  thee  the  witness 
written  of  life  in  light. 

Life  that  shines  from  thee  shows  forth  signs  that 
none  may  read  not  but  eyeless  foes  : 

Hate,  born  blind,  in  his  abject  mind  grows  hope- 
ful now  but  as  madness  grows  : 

Love,  born  wise,  with  exultant  eyes  adores  thy 
glory,  beholds  and  glows. 

Truth  is  in  thee,  and  none  may  win  thee  to  lie, 

forsaking  the  face  of  truth  : 
Freedom  lives  by  the  grace  she  gives  thee,  born 

again  from  thy  deathless  youth  : 
Faith  should  fail,  and  the  world  turn   pale,  wert 

thou  the  prey  of  the  serpent's  tooth. 

Greed  and  fraud,  unabashed,  unawed,  may  strive 
to  sting  thee  at  heel  in  vain  : 

Craft  and  fear  and  mistrust  may  leer  and  mourn 
and  murmur  and  plead  and  plain  : 

Thou  art  thou  :  and  thy  sunbright  brow  is  hers 
that  blasted  the  strength  of  Spain. 


tElje  0rmatia  49 

Mother,  mother  beloved,  none  other  could  claim 
in  place  of  thee  England's  place  : 

Earth  bears  none  that  beholds  the  sun  so  pure 
of  record,  so  clothed  with  grace  : 

Dear  our  mother,  nor  son  nor  brother  is  thine, 
as  strong  or  as  fair  of  face. 

How  shalt  thou  be  abased  ?  or  how  shall  fear 
take  hold  of  thy  heart  ?   of  thine, 

England,  maiden  immortal,  laden  with  charge  of 
life  and  with  hopes  divine  ? 

Earth  shall  wither,  when  eyes  turned  hither  be- 
hold not  light  in  her  darkness  shine. 

England,  none  that  is  born  thy  son,  and  lives, 

by  grace  of  thy  glory,  free. 
Lives  and  yearns  not  at  heart  and  burns  with 

hope  to  serve  as  he  worships  thee ; 
None  may  sing  thee  :  the  sea-wind's  wing  beats 

down  our  songs  as  it  hails  the  sea. 


50       Select  ^pof m0  of  ^iuinbume 

ODE   ON   THE   PROCLAMATION   OF 
THE   FRENCH    REPUBLIC 

alMvov  alXivov  eiVe,  rb  8'  e5  viKaro) 
STROPHE    I 

With  songs  and  crying  and  sounds  of  acclama- 
tions, 
Lo,  the   flame    risen,  the   fire    that    falls   in 
showers  ! 
Hark  ;   for  the  word  is  out  among  the  nations  : 

Look ;   for  the  light  is  up  upon  the  hours : 
O  fears,  O  shames,  O  many  tribulations. 

Yours  were  all  yesterdays,  but  this  day  ours. 
Strong  were  your  bonds  linked  fast  with  lamen- 
tations. 
With  groans  and   tears  built  into  walls  and 
towers ; 
Strong  were  your  works  and  wonders  of  high 
stations. 
Your  forts  blood-based,  and  rampires  of  your 
powers  : 
Lo  now  the  last  of  divers  desolations. 

The  hand  of  time,   that   gathers   hosts  like 
flowers ; 
Time,  that  fills  up  and  pours  out  generations  ; 
Time,  at  whose  breath    confounded  empire 
cowers. 


tE^lje  ifrenci)  Republic  51 

STR,    2 

What  are  these  moving  in   the   dawn's  red 

gloom  ? 
What  is  she  waited  on  by  dread  and  doom, 
111   ministers   of   morning,    bondmen    born   of 

night  ? 
If  that  head  veiled  and  bowed  be  morning's 

head, 
If  she  come  walking  between  doom  and  dread, 
Who  shall  rise  up  with  song  and  dance  before 

her  sight  ? 

Are  not  the  night's  dead  heaped  about  her 
feet  ? 

Is  not  death  swollen,  and  slaughter  full  of 
meat  ? 
What,  is  their  feast   a  bride-feast,  where  men 
sing  and  dance  ? 

A  bitter,  a  bitter  bride-song  and  a  shrill 

Should    the     house    raise     that    such    bride- 
followers  fill. 
Wherein  defeat  weds  ruin,  and  takes  for  bride- 
bed  France. 

For  nineteen  years  deep  shame  and  sore  desire 
Fed  from  men's  hearts  with  hungering  fangs 
of  fire. 


52       Select  poems:  of  ^tDinbume 

And  hope  fell  sick  with  famine  for  the  food  of 
change. 
Now  is  change  come,  but  bringing  funeral  urns ; 
Now  is  day  nigh,  but  the  dawn  blinds  and 
burns ; 
Now  time  long  dumb  hath  language,  but  the 
tongue  is  strange. 

We  that  have  seen  her  not  our  whole  lives 

long, 
We  to  whose  ears  her  dirge  was  cradle-song, 
The  dirge  men  sang  who  laid  in  earth  her  living 
head. 
Is  it  by  such  light  that  we  live  to  see 
Rise,  with  rent  hair  and  raiment.  Liberty  ? 
Does  her  grave  open  only  to  restore  her  dead .? 

Ah,  was  it  this  we  looked   for,  looked  and 

prayed. 
This  hour  that  treads  upon  the  prayers  we 

made. 
This  ravening  hour  that  breaks  down  good  and 

ill  alike  ? 
Ah,  was  it  thus  we  thought  to  see  her  and 

hear, 
The  one  love  indivisible  and  dear  ? 
Is  it  her  head    that  hands  which  strike  down 

wrong  must  strike  ? 


turtle  ifrencl)  Republic  53 

STR.   3 

Where  is  hope,  and  promise  where,  in  all  these 

things, 
Shocks   of  strength  with   strength,  and  jar  of 

hurtling  kings  ? 
Who  of  all  men,  who  will  show  us  any  good  ? 
Shall  these  lightnings  of  blind  battles  give  men 

light  ? 
Where  is  freedom  ?    who  will  bring  us  in  her 

sight. 
That  have  hardly  seen  her  footprint  where 

she  stood  ? 

STR.  4. 

Who  is  this   that   rises  red  with  wounds  and 
splendid. 
All  her  breast  and  brow  made  beautiful  with 
scars. 
Burning  bare  as  naked  daylight,  undefended. 
In  her  hands  for  spoils  her  splintered  prison- 
bars, 
In  her  eyes  the  light  and  fire  of  long  pain  ended, 
In  her  lips  a  song  as  of  the  morning  stars  ? 

STR.  5 

O  torn  out  of  thy  trance, 
O  deathless,  O  my  FrancCf 


54       Select  poems;  of  ^toinbume 

O  many-wounded  mother,  O  redeemed  to  reign  ! 

O  rarely  sweet  and  bitter 

The  bright  brief  tears  that  glitter 
On  thine  unclosing  eyelids,  proud  of  their  own 
pain  ; 

The  beautiful  brief  tears 

That  wash  the  stains  of  years 
White  as  the  names  immortal  of  thy  chosen  and 
slain. 

O  loved  so  much  so  long, 

O  smitten  with  such  wrong, 
O  purged  at  last  and  perfect  without  spot  or 
stain, 

Light  of  the  light  of  man, 

Reborn  republican. 
At  last,  O  first  Republic,  hailed  in  heaven  again ! 

Out  of  the  obscene  eclipse 

Rerisen,  with  burning  lips 
To  witness  for  us  if  we  looked  for  thee  in  vain. 

STR,  6 

Thou  wast  the  light  whereby  men  saw 
Light,  thou  the  trumpet  of  the  law 

Proclaiming  manhood  to  mankind; 

And  what  if  all  these  years  were  blind 
And  shameful  ?     Hath  the  sun  a  flaw 
Because  one  hour  hath  power  to  draw 

Mist  round  him  wreathed  as  links  to  bind  ? 


^\)t  ifrcnc^  Republic  55 

And  what  if  now  keen  anguish  drains 
The  very  wellspring  of  thy  veins 

And  very  spirit  of  thy  breath  ? 
The  life  outlives  them  and  disdains; 
The  sense  which  makes  the  soul  remains, 

And  blood  of  thought  which  travaileth 
To  bring  forth  hope  with  procreant  pains. 
O  thou  that  satest  bound  in  chains 
Between  thine  hills  and  pleasant  plains 

As  whom  his  own  soul  vanquisheth, 
Held  in  the  bonds  of  his  own  thought, 
Whence  very  death  can  take  off  nought, 

Nor  sleep,  with  bitterer  dreams  than  death, 
What  though  thy  thousands  at  thy  knees 
Lie  thick  as  grave-worms  feed  on  these. 
Though  thy  green  fields  and  joyous  places 
Are  populous  with  blood-blackening  faces 

And  wan  limbs  eaten  by  the  sun  ? 
Better  an  end  of  all  men's  races. 

Better  the  world's  whole  work  were  done, 
And  life  wiped  out  of  all  our  traces. 

And  there  were  left  to  time  not  one. 
Than  such  as  these  that  fill  thy  graves 
Should  sow  in  slaves  the  seed  of  slaves. 

ANTISTROPHE    I 

Not  of  thy  sons,  O  mother  many-wounded, 
Not  of  thy  sons  are  slaves  ingraffed  and  grown. 


56       Select  ^otm&  of  ^toinburne 

Was    it   not   thine,  the   fire   whence   light  re- 
bounded 
From  kingdom  on  rekindling  kingdom  thrown, 
From  hearts  confirmed  on  tyrannies  confounded, 
From  earth  on  heaven,  fire  mightier  than  his 
own  ? 
Not  thine  the  breath  wherewith  time's  clarion 
sounded, 
And  all  the  terror  in  the  trumpet  blown  ? 
The  voice  whereat  the  thunders  stood  astounded 

As  at  a  new  sound  of  a  God  unknown  ? 
And  all  the  seas  and  shores  within  them  bounded 
Shook    at    the    strange    speech    of   thy    lips 
alone. 
And  all    the    hills   of   heaven,  the    storm-sur- 
rounded. 
Trembled,  and    all   the   night    sent   forth   a 
groan. 

ANT.  2 

What  hast  thou  done  that  such  an  hour  should 
be 

More   than   another   clothed   with   blood   to 
thee  ? 
Thou  hast  seen  many  a  bloodred  hour  before 
this  one. 

What  art  thou  that  thy  lovers  should  mis- 
doubt ? 


tETtlf  ifrenc^  Republic  57 

What   is  this  hour  that  it  should  cast  hope 
out? 
If  hope  turn  back  and  fall  from  thee,  what  hast 
thou  done  ? 
Thou  hast  done  ill  against  thine  own  soul ; 

yea, 
Thine  own  soul  hast  thou   slain  and  burnt 
away, 
Dissolving  it  with  poison  into  foul  thin  fume. 
Thine  own  life  and  creation  of  thy  fate 
Thou  hast  set  thy  hand  to  unmake  and  dis- 
create  j 
And  now  thy  slain  soul  rises  between  dread  and 
doom. 

Yea,  this   is  she  that  comes  between  them 
led; 

That  veiled  head   is  thine  own  soul's  buried 
head. 
The  head  that  was  as  morning's  in  the  whole 
world's  sight. 

These  wounds  are  deadly  on  thee,  but  dead- 
lier 

Those  wounds  the  ravenous  poison  left  on 
her; 
How  shall  her  weak  hands  hold  thy  weak  hands 
up  to  fight  ? 


58       Select  ]^otm&  of  ^toinburne 

Ah,  but  her  fiery  eyes,  her  eyes  are  these 
That^  gazing,  make  thee  shiver  to  the  knees 
And  the  blood  leap  within  thee,  and  the  strong 
joy  rise. 
What,  doth  her  sight  yet  make  thine  heart  to 

dance  ? 
O  France,  O  freedom,  O  the  soul  of  France, 
Are  ye  then  quickened,  gazing  in  each  other's 
eyes  ? 

Ah,  and  her  words,  the  words  wherewith  she 

sought  thee 
Sorrowing,  and   bare   in    hand   the  robe  she 
wrought  thee 
To  wear  when  soul  and  body  were  again  made 
one. 
And  fairest  among  women,  and  a  bride. 
Sweet-voiced  to  sing  the  bridegroom  to  her  side, 
The  spirit  of  man,  the  bridegroom  brighter  than 
the  sun  ! 

ANT.  3 

Who  shall  help  me  ?   who  shall  take  me  by  the 

hand  ? 
Who  shall  teach   mine  eyes  to  see,  my  feet  to 

stand, 
Now  my  foes  have  stripped  and  wounded  me 

by  night  ? 


tiriie  S^tmcf)  Kepubltc  59 

Who  shall  heal  me  ?   who  shall  come  to  take 

my  part  ? 
Who  shall  set  me  as  a  seal  upon  his  heart, 
As  a  seal  upon  his  arm  made  bare  for  fight  ? 

ANT.    4 

If  thou  know  not,  O  thou  fairest  among  women, 
If  thou  see  not  where  the  signs  of  him  abide. 
Lift  thine  eyes  up  to  the  light  that  stars  grow 
dim  in. 
To  the  morning  whence   he  comes  to  take 
thy  side. 
None  but  he  can  bear  the  light  that  love  wraps 
him  in. 
When  he  comes  on  earth   to   take   himself 
a  bride. 

ANT.   5 

Light  of  light,  name  of  names. 

Whose  shadows  are  live  flames. 
The  soul  that  moves  the  wings  of  worlds  upon 
their  way  : 

Life,  spirit,  blood  and  breath 

In  time  and  change  and  death 
Substant  through  strength  and  weakness,  ardour 
and  decay  ; 

Lord  of  the  lives  of  lands. 

Spirit  of  man,  whose  hands 


6o       Select  poentflf  of  ^iombume 

Weave  the  web  through  wherein  man's  centu- 
ries fall  as  prey ; 
That  art  within  our  will 
Power  to  make,  save,  and  kill, 
Knowledge  and  choice,  to  take  extremities  and 
weigh  ; 
In  the  soul's  hand  to  smite 
Strength,  in  the  soul's  eye  sight ; 
That   to   the  soul  art  even  as   is  the   soul   to 
clay; 
Now  to  this  people  be 
Love  J  come,  to  set  them  free. 
With  feet  that  tread  the  night,  with  eyes  that 
sound  the  day. 

ANT.    6 

Thou  that  wast  on  their  fathers  dead 
As  effluent  God  effused  and  shed. 

Heaven  to  be  handled,  hope  made  flesh, 

Break  for  them  now  time's  iron  mesh  ; 
Give  them  thyself  for  hand  and  head. 
Thy  breath  for  life,  thy  love  for  bread. 

Thy  thought  for  spirit  to  refresh. 
Thy  bitterness  to  pierce  and  sting, 
Thy  sweetness  for  a  healing  spring. 

Be  to  them  knowledge,  strength,  life,  light. 
Thou  to  whose  feet  the  centuries  cling 
And  in  the  wide  warmth  of  thy  wing 


I 


^\\t  ifrntcl)  Republic  6i 

Seek  room  and  rest  as  birds  by  night, 
O  thou  the  kingless  people's  king. 
To  whom  the  lips  of  silence  sing. 
Called  by  thy  name  of  thanksgiving 

Freedom,  and  by  thy  name  of  might 
Justice,  and  by  thy  secret  name 
Love ;  the  same  need  is  on  the  same 

Men,  be  the  same  God  in  their  sight ! 
From  this  their  hour  of  bloody  tears 
Their  praise  goes  up  into  thine  ears, 
Their  bruised  lips  clothe  thy  name  with  praises. 
The  song  of  thee  their  crushed  voice  raises. 

Their  grief  seeks  joy  for  psalms  to  borrow. 
With  tired  feet  seeks  her  through  time's  mazes 

Where  each  day's  blood  leaves  pale  the  mor- 
row 
And  from  their  eyes  in  thine  there  gazes 

A  spirit  other  far  than  sorrow  — 
A  soul  triumphal,  white  and  whole 
And  single,  that  salutes  thy  soul. 

EPODE 

All   the  lights   of  the  sweet  heaven  that  sing 

together, 
AH  the  years  of  the   green   earth  that  bare 

man  free  ; 
Rays    and    lightings    of    the    fierce    or    tender 

weather. 


62       Select  ^pofm0  of  ^toinburne 

Heights  and  lowlands,  wastes  and  headlands 
of  the  sea, 
Dawns  and  sunset,  hours  that  hold  the  world  in 
tether. 
Be  our  witnesses  and  seals  of  things  to  be. 
Lo  the  mother,  the  Republic  universal, 

Hands  that  hold  time  fast,  hands  feeding  men 
with  might, 
Lips  that  sing  the  song  of  the  earth,  that  make 
rehearsal 
Of  all  seasons,  and  the  sway  of  day  with 
night. 
Eyes   that    see   as   from   a   mountain    the    dis- 
persal. 
The  huge  ruin  of  things  evil,  and  the  flight ; 
Large    exulting     limbs,    and     bosom    godlike 
moulded 
Where    the    man-child    hangs,   and    womb 
wherein  he  lay ; 
Very  life  that  could  it  die  would  leave  the  soul 
dead. 
Face  whereat  all  fears  and  forces  flee  away. 
Breath  that  moves  the  world  as  winds  a  flower- 
bell  folded. 
Feet  that  trampling  the  gross  darkness  beat 
out  day. 
In  the  hour  of  pain  and  pity. 
Sore  spent,  a  wounded  city, 


I 


^\)t  iFrenclj  Republic  63 

Her  foster-child  seeks  to  her,  stately  wnere  she 
stands  ; 
In  the  utter  hour  of  woes, 
Wind-shaken,  blind  with  blows, 
Paris  lays  hold  upon  her,  grasps  her  with  child's 
hands ; 
Face  kindles  face  with  fire. 
Hearts  take  and  give  desire. 
Strange  joy  breaks  red  as  tempest  on  tormented 
lands. 
Day  to  day,  man  to  man, 
Plights  love  republican, 
And  faith  and  memory  burn  with  passion  to- 
ward each  other  ; 
Hope,  with  fresh  heavens  to  track, 
Looks  for  a  breath's  space  back. 
Where  the  divine  past  years  reach  hands  to  this 
their  brother; 
And  souls  of  men  whose  death 
Was  light  to  her  and  breath 
Send    word    of    love   yet   living   to   the    living 
mother. 
They  call  her,  and  she  hears ; 
O  France,  thy  marvellous  years, 
The  years  of  the  strong  travail,  the  triumphant 
time, 
Days  terrible  with  love. 
Red-shod  with  flames  thereof, 


64       Select  |jDoem0  of  ^fcombume 

Call  to  this  hour  that  breaks  in  pieces  crown 
and  crime; 
The  hour  with  feet  to  spurn. 
Hands  to  crush,  fires  to  burn 
The  state  whereto  no  latter  foot  of  man  shall 
climb. 
Yea,  come  what  grief  now  may 
By  ruinous  night  or  day, 
One  grief  there  cannot,  one  the  first  and  last 
grief,  shame. 
Come  force  to  break  thee  and  bow 
Down,  shame  can  come  not  now, 
Nor,  though  hands  wound  thee,  tongues   make 
mockery  of  thy  name  : 
Come  swords  and  scar  thy  brow, 
No  brand  there  burns  it  now. 
No   spot   but  of  thy   blood    marks   thy  white- 
fronted  fame. 
Now  though  the  mad  blind  morrow 
With  shafts  of  iron  sorrow 
Should  split  thine  heart,  and  whelm  thine  head 
with  sanguine  waves  ; 
Though  all  that  draw  thy  breath 
Bled  from  all  veins  to  death, 
And  thy  dead  body  were  the  grave  of  all  their 
graves. 
And  thine  unchilded  womb 
For  all  their  tombs  a  tomb, 


tE^lie  ifrencl)  Republic  65 

At  least  within  thee  as  on  thee  room  were  none 
for  slaves. 
This  power  thou  hast,  to  be, 
Come  death  or  come  not,  free ; 
That    in   all   tongues   of  time's   this   praise  be 
chanted  of  thee, 
That  in  thy  wild  worst  hour 
This  power  put  in  thee  power, 
And  moved  as  hope  around  and  hung  as  heaven 
above  thee. 
And  while  earth  sat  in  sadness 
In  only  thee  put  gladness. 
Put  strength  and  love,  to  make  all  hearts  of  ages 
love  thee. 
That  in  death's  face  thy  chant 
Arose  up  jubilant, 
And  thy  great  heart  with  thy  great  peril  grew 
more  great : 
And  sweet  for  bitter  tears 
Put  out  the  fires  of  fears, 
And  love  made  lovely  for  thee  loveless  hell  and 
hate  ; 
And  they  that  house  with  error. 
Cold  shame  and  burning  terror. 
Fled  from  truth  risen  and  thee  made  mightier 
than  thy  fate. 
This  shall  all  years  remember  ; 
For  this  thing  shall  September 


66       Select  poentflt  of  ^toinburne 

Have  only  name  of  honour,  only  sign  of  white. 

And  this  year's  fearful  name, 

France,  in  thine  house  of  fame 
Above  all  names  of  all  thy  triumphs  shalt  thou 
write. 

When,  seeing  thy  freedom  stand 

Even  at  despair's  right  hand, 
The  cry  thou  gavest  at  heart  was  only  of  delight. 


POEMS  OF  PAGANISM  AND 
PANTHEISM 


THE  GARDEN  OF  PROSERPINE 

Here,  where  the  world  is  quiet; 

Here,  where  all  trouble  seems 
Dead  winds'  and  spent  waves'  riot 

In  doubtful  dreams  of  dreams  ; 
I  watch  the  green  field  growing 
For  reaping  folk  and  sowing. 
For  harvest-time  and  mowing, 

A  sleepy  world  of  streams. 

I  am  tired  of  tears  and  laughter. 

And  men  that  laugh  and  weep ; 
Of  what  may  come  hereafter 
For  men  that  sow  to  reap : 
I  am  weary  of  days  and  hours. 
Blown  buds  of  barren  flowers. 
Desires  and  dreams  and  powers 
And  every  thing  but  sleep. 

Here  life  has  death  for  neighbor. 
And  far  from  eye  or  ear 


68       Select  ponnsf  of  ^tumbume 

Wan  waves  and  wet  winds  labour, 
Weak  ships  and  spirits  steer; 

They  drive  adrift,  and  whither 

They  wot  not  who  make  thither; 

But  no  such  winds  blow  hither. 
And  no  such  things  grow  here. 

No  growth  of  moor  or  coppice. 

No  heather-flower  or  vine. 
But  bloomless  buds  of  poppies. 
Green  grapes  of  Proserpine, 
Pale  beds  of  blowing  rushes 
Where  no  leaf  blooms  or  blushes 
Save  this  whereout  she  crushes 
For  dead  men  deadly  wine. 

Pale,  without  name  or  number, 

In  fruitless  fields  of  corn. 
They  bow  themselves  and  slumber 

All  night  till  light  is  born ; 
And  like  a  soul  belated, 
In  hell  and  heaven  unmated, 
By  cloud  and  mist  abated 

Comes  out  of  darkness  morn. 

Though  one  were  strong  as  seven, 
He  too  with  death  shall  dwell. 

Nor  wake  with  wings  in  heaven, 
Nor  weep  for  pains  in  hell ; 


tl!^|)e  ^ruen  of  ^prosierpme         69 

Though  one  were  fair  as  roses, 

His  beauty  clouds  and  closes ; 

And  well  though  love  reposes, 

In  the  end  it  is  not  well. 

Pale,  beyond  porch  and  portal. 

Crowned  with  calm  leaves,  she  stands 

Who  gathers  all  things  mortal 
With  cold  immortal  hands  ; 

Her  languid  lips  are  sweeter 

Than  love's  who  fears  to  greet  her 

To  men  that  mix  and  meet  her 
From  many  times  and  lands. 

She  waits  for  each  and  other. 

She  waits  for  all  men  born ; 
Forgets  the  earth  her  mother. 

The  life  of  fruits  and  corn  ; 
And  spring  and  seed  and  swallow 
Take  wing  for  her  and  follow 
Where  summer  song  rings  hollow 

And  flowers  are  put  to  scorn. 

There  go  the  loves  that  wither, 

The  old  loves  with  wearier  wings ; 

And  all  dead  years  draw  thither. 
And  all  disastrous  things  j 


70       Select  potm&  of  ^toinburne 

Dead  dreams  of  days  forsaken, 
Blind  buds  that  snows  have  shaken. 
Wild  leaves  that  winds  have  taken, 
Red  strays  of  ruined  springs. 

We  are  not  sure  of  sorrow, 

And  joy  was  never  sure  ; 

To-day  will  die  to-morrow  ; 

Time  stoops  to  no  man's  lure ; 
And  love,  grown  faint  and  fretful 
With  lips  but  half  regretful 
Sighs,  and  with  eyes  forgetful 
Weeps  that  no  loves  endure. 

From  too  much  love  of  living. 
From  hope  and  fear  set  free. 

We  thank  with  brief  thanksgiving 
Whatever  gods  may  be 

That  no  life  lives  for  ever  ; 

That  dead  men  rise  up  never; 

That  even  the  weariest  river 
Winds  somewhere  safe  to  sea. 

Then  star  nor  sun  shall  waken, 
Nor  any  change  of  light : 

Nor  sound  of  waters  shaken. 
Nor  any  sound  or  sight : 


^^mn  to  :|pros;erpme  71 

Nor  wintry  leaves  nor  vernal, 
Nor  days  nor  things  diurnal ; 
Only  the  sleep  eternal 
In  an  eternal  night. 


HYMN    TO   PROSERPINE 

(after    the    proclamation    in    ROME    OF    THE 
CHRISTIAN    faith) 

Vicisti,  Galilae. 

I  HAVE  lived  long  enough,  having  seen  one 
thing,  that  love  hath  an  end  ; 

Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me 
now  and  befriend. 

Thou  art  more  than  the  day  or  the  morrow,  the 
seasons  that  laugh  or  that  weep  ; 

For  these  give  joy  and  sorrow  ;  but  thou,  Pros- 
erpina, sleep. 

Sweet  is  the  treading  of  wine,  and  sweet  the 
feet  of  the  dove  ; 

But  a  goodlier  gift  is  thine  than  foam  of  the 
grapes  or  love. 

Yea,  is  not  even  Apollo,  with  hair  and  harp- 
string  of  gold, 

A  bitter  God  to  follow,  a  beautiful  God  to  be- 
hold .? 


72       Select  poems;  of  ^iuinbume 

I  am  sick  of  singing :  the  bays  burn  deep  and 
chafe  :   I  am  fain 

To  rest  a  little  from  praise  and  grievous  pleas- 
ure and  pain. 

For  the  Gods  we  know  not  of,  who  give  us  our 
daily  breath, 

We  know  they  are  cruel  as  love  or  life,  and 
lovely  as  death. 

0  Gods    dethroned   and  deceased,   cast   forth, 

wiped  out  in  a  day  ! 

From  your  wrath  is  the  world  released,  re- 
deemed from  your  chains,  men  say. 

New  Gods  are  crowned  in  the  city ;  their  flow- 
ers have  broken  your  rods  ; 

They  are  merciful,  clothed  with  pity,  the  young 
compassionate  Gods. 

But  for  me  their  new  device  is  barren,  the  days 
are  bare ; 

Things  long  past  over  suffice,  and  men  forgot- 
ten that  were. 

Time  and  the  Gods  are  at  strife  ;  ye  dwell  in 
the  midst  thereof. 

Draining  a  little  life  from  the  barren  breasts  of 
love. 

1  say  to  you,  cease,  take  rest ;  yea,  I  say  to  you 

all,  be  at  peace, 
Till  the  bitter  milk  of  her  breast  and  the  barren 
bosom  shall  cease. 


J^^ntn  to  prosferpine  73 

Wilt  thou  yet  take  all,  Galilean  ?  but  these  thou 

shalt  not  take, 
The  laurel,  the  palms  and  the  paean,  the  breasts 

of  the  nymphs  in  the  brake ; 
Breasts  more   soft   than   a   dove's,  that  tremble 

with  tenderer  breath  ; 
And  all  the  wings  of  the  Loves,  and  all  the  joy 

before  death ; 
All  the  feet  of  the  hours  that  sound  as  a  single 

lyre. 
Dropped  and  deep  in   the  flowers,  with  strings 

that  flicker  like  fire. 
More  than  these  wilt  thou  give,  things  fairer 

than  all  these  things  ? 
Nay,  for  a  little  we  live,  and  life  hath  mutable 

wings. 
A  little  while  and  we  die ;  shall  life  not  thrive 

as  it  may  ? 
For  no  man  under  the  sky  lives  twice,  outliving 

his  day. 
And  grief  is  a  grievous  thing,  and  a  man  hath 

enough  of  his  tears  : 
Why  should  he  labour,  and  bring  fresh  grief  to 

blacken  his  years  ? 
Thou    hast    conquered,    O    pale   Galilean  ;  the 

world  has  grown  grey  from  thy  breath  ; 
We  have  drunken  of  things  Lethean,  and  fed 

on  the  fulness  of  death. 


74       Select  l^otma  of  ^iumburne 

Laurel  is  green  for  a  season,  and  love  is  sweet 

for  a  day  ; 
But  love  grows  bitter  with  treason,  and  laurel 

outlives  not  May. 
Sleep,  shall  we  sleep  after  all  ?   for  the  world  is 

not  sweet  in  the  end  ; 
For  the  old  faiths  loosen  and  fall,  the  new  years 

ruin  and  rend. 
Fate  is  a  sea  without  shore,  and  the  soul  is  a 

rock  that  abides  ; 
But  her  ears  are  vexed  with  the  roar  and  her 

face  with  the  foam  of  the  tides. 
O  lips  that  the  live  blood  faints  in,  the  leavings 

of  racks  and  rods  ! 

0  ghastly  glories  of  saints,  dead   limbs  of  gib- 

beted gods  ! 
Though  all  men  abase  them  before  you  in  spirit, 
and  all  knees  bend, 

1  kneel  not  neither  adore  you,  but  standing,  look 

to  the  end. 

All  delicate  days  and  pleasant,  all  spirits  and 
sorrows  are  cast 

Far  out  with  the  foam  of  the  present  that 
sweeps  to  the  surf  of  the  past : 

Where  beyond  the  extreme  sea-wall,  and  be- 
tween the  remote  sea-gates. 

Waste  water  washes,  and  tall  ships  founder,  and 
deep  death  waits: 


J^^mn  to  ^j9ro0erpmc  75 

Where,  mighty  with  deepening  sides,  clad  about 

with  the  seas  as  with  wings, 
And  impelled  of  invisible  tides,  and  fulfilled  of 

unspeakable  things, 
White-eyed  and  poisonous-finned,  shark-toothed 

and  serpentine-curled, 
Rolls,  under  the  whitening  wind   of  the  future, 

the  wave  of  the  world. 
The   depths  stand   naked    in    sunder  behind   it, 

the  storms  flee  away  ; 
In  the  hollow  before  it  the   thunder  is   taken 

and  snared  as  a  prey  ; 
In  its  sides  is  the  north-wind  bound  ;  and  its  salt 

is  of  all  men's  tears  ; 
With  light  of  ruin,  and  sound  of  changes,  and 

pulse  of  years  : 
With  travail  of  day  after  day,  and  with  trouble 

of  hour  upon  hour  ; 
And  bitter  as  blood  is  the  spray  ;  and  the  crests 

are  as  fangs  that  devour : 
And  its  vapour  and   storm  of  its  steam  as  the 

sighing  of  spirits  to  be  ; 
And  its  noise  as  the  noise  in  a  dream  ;  and  its 

depth  as  the  roots  of  the  sea  : 
And  the  height  of  its  heads  as  the  height  of  the 

utmost  stars  of  the  air : 
And   the  ends  of  the  earth  at  the  might  thereof 

tremble,  and  time  is  made  bare. 


7.6       Select  poem0  of  ^tDinbume 

Will  ye  bridle  the  deep  sea  with  reins,  will  ye 

chasten  the  high  sea  with  rods  ? 
Will  ye  take  her  to  chain  her  with  chains,  who 

is  older  than  all  ye  Gods  ? 
All  ye  as  a  wind  shall  go  by,  as  a  fire  shall  ye  pass 

and  be  past ; 
Ye  are  Gods,  and  behold,  ye  shall  die,  and  the 

waves  be  upon  you  at  last. 
In  the  darkness  of  time,  in  the  deeps  of  the 

years,  in  the  changes  of  things. 
Ye  shall  sleep  as  a  slain  man   sleeps,  and  the 

world  shall  forget  you  for  kings. 
Though    the    feet   of   thine   high  priests  tread 

where  thy  lords  and  our  forefathers  trod. 
Though  these  that   were   Gods   are  dead,  and 

thou  being  dead  art  a  God, 
Though  before  thee  the  throned  Cytherean  be 

fallen,  and  hidden  her  head. 
Yet  thy  kingdom  shall  pass,  Galilean,  thy  dead 

shall  go  down  to  thee  dead. 
Of  the  maiden  thy  mother  men  sing  as  a  god- 
dess with  grace  clad  around  ; 
Thou  art  throned  where  another  was  king;  where 

another  was  queen  she  is  crowned. 
Yea,  once  we  had  sight  of  another :  but  now  she 

is  queen,  say  these. 
Not  as  thine,  not  as  thine  was  our  mother,  a 

blossom  of  flowering  seas, 


i^^mn  to  Proserpine  77 

Clothed  round  with  the  world's  desire  as  with 

raiment  and  fair  as  the  foam, 
And  fleeter  than  kindled  fire,  and  a  goddess  and 

mother  of  Rome. 
For  thine  came  pale  and  a  maiden,  and  sister  to 

sorrow ;  but  ours. 
Her   deep   hair   heavily  laden  with  odour   and 

colour  of  flowers. 
White  rose  of  the   rose-white  water,  a  silver 

splendour,  a  flame, 
Bent  down  unto  us  that  besought  her,  and  earth 

grew  sweet  with  her  name. 
For  thine  came  weeping,  a  slave  among  slaves, 

and  rejected  ;  but  she 
Came  flushed  from  the  full-flushed  wave,  and 

imperial,  her  foot  on  the  sea. 
And  the  wonderful  waters  knew  her,  the  winds 

and  the  viewless  ways. 
And  the  roses  grew  rosier,  and  bluer  the  sea-blue 

stream  of  the  bays. 
Ye  are  fallen,  our  lords,  by  what  token  ?  we  wist 

that  ye  should  not  fall. 
Ye  were  all  so  fair  that  are  broken ;  and  one 

more  fair  than  ye  all. 
But  I  turn  to  her  still,  having  seen  she  shall 

surely  abide  in  the  end  ; 
Goddess  and  maiden  and  queen,  be  near  me  now 

and  befriend. 


7  8       S>elect  l^otm&  of  ^tDinbume 

0  daughter  of  earth,  of  my  mother,  her  crown 

and  blossom  of  birth, 

1  am  also,  I  also,  thy  brother ;   I  go  as  I  came 

unto  earth. 
In  the  night  where  thine  eyes  are  as  moons  are 

in  heaven,  the  night  where  thou  art, 
Where  the  silence  is  more  than  all  tunes,  where 

sleep  overflows  from  the  heart, 
Where  the  poppies  are  sweet  as  the  rose  in  our 

world,  and  the  red  rose  is  white. 
And   the  wind  falls  faint  as  it  blows  with  the 

fume  of  the  flowers  of  the  night. 
And    the   murmur  of  spirits   that   sleep  in  the 

shadow  of  Gods  from  afar 
Grows   dim  in  thine  ears  and  deep  as  the  deep 

dim  soul  of  a  star. 
In  the  sweet  low  light  of  thy  face,  under  heavens 

untrod  by  the  sun, 
Let  my  soul  with  their  souls   find  place,  and 

forget  what  is  done  and  undone. 
Thou  art  more  than  the  Gods  who  number  the 

days  of  our  temporal  breath  ; 
For  these  give  labour  and  slumber;  but  thou, 

Proserpina,  death. 
Therefore  now  at  thy  feet  I  abide  for  a  season 

in  silence.      I  know 
I  shall  die  as  my  fathers  died,  and  sleep  as  they 

sleep  ;  even  so. 


Slje  Hast  abrade  79 

For  the  glass  of  the  years  is  brittle  wherein  we 

gaze  for  a  span  ; 
A  little  soul   for  a  little  bears  up  this  corpse 

which  is  man.' 
So  long  I    endure,  no   longer ;    and    laugh  not 

again,  neither  weep. 
For  there  is  no  God  found  stronger  than  death ; 

and  death  is  a  sleep. 

THE   LAST  ORACLE 

(A.  D.  361) 

eiirart  rif  $a<n\ri't\  X"/"*'  Trecre  SaiSa\os  av\a.- 
ovKfTi  4>or)3os  ex*'  KaKvl3av,  ov  ixivTida  Bd<pvT]v, 
oil  irayai/  \a\fOv(Tav  airecr^iro  Kal  \a.\ov  vSwp. 

Years  have  risen  and  fallen  in  darkness  or  in 
twilight. 
Ages  waxed  and  waned  that  knew  not  thee 
nor  thine. 
While   the   world    sought    light    by  night    and 
sought  not  thy  light. 
Since  the  sad  last  pilgrim  left  thy  dark  mid 
shrine. 
Dark   the  shrine  and   dumb   the  fount  of  song 
thence  welling. 
Save  for  words  more  sad  than  tears  of  blood, 
that  said  : 

*  ^vxdpiov  fJ  Pa(TTd(ov  vfKp6v.     Epictetus. 


8o       Select  ^poetti0  of  ^tombume 

Tell   the   king,  on    earth  has  fallen    the   glorious 
dwelling. 
And  the  watersprings  that  spake  are  quenched 
and  dead. 
Not  a  cell  is  left  the  God,  no  roof  no  cover  ; 

In  his  hand  the  prophet  laurel  flowers  no  more. 
And  the  great  king's  high  sad  heart,  thy  true 
last  lover, 
Felt  thine  answer  pierce  and  cleave  it  to  the 
core. 
And  he  bowed  down  his  hopeless  head 
In  the  drift  of  the  wild  world's  tide, 
And  dying.  Thou  hast  conquered,  he  said, 

Galilean ;  he  said  it,  and  died. 
And  the  world  that  was  thine  and  was  ours 
When   the  Graces   look    hands  with   the 

Hours 
Grew  cold  as  a  winter  wave 
In  the  wind  from  a  wide-mouthed  grave, 
As  a  gulf  wide  open  to  swallow 
The  light  that  the  world  held  dear. 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear  ! 

Age  on  age  thy  mouth  was  mute,  thy  face  was 
hidden. 
And  the  lips  and  eyes  that  loved  thee  blind 
and  dumb ; 


^\)t  Msit  <Btndt  8 1 

Song  forsook  their  tongues  that  held  thy  name 
forbidden, 
Light  their  eyes  that  saw  the  strange  God's 
kingdom  come. 
Fire  for  light  and  hell  for  heaven  and  psalms  for 
paeans 
Filled  the  clearest  eyes  and  lips  most  sweet 
of  song, 
When  for  chant  of  Greeks  the  wail  of  Galileans 
Made  the  whole  world  moan  with  hymns  of 
wrath  and  wrong. 
Yea,  not  yet  we  see  thee,  father,  as  they  saw  thee. 
They  that  worshipped  when  the  world  was 
theirs  and  thine. 
They  whose  words   had   power  by   thine   own 
power  to  draw  thee 
Down  from  heaven  till  earth  seemed  more 
than  heaven  divine. 
For  the  shades  are  about  us  that  hover 

When  darkness  is  half  withdrawn 
And  the  skirts  of  the  dead  night  cover 

The  face  of  the  live  new  dawn. 
For  the  past  is  not  utterly  past 
Though  the  word  on  its  lips  be  the  last, 
And  the  time  be  gone  by  with  its  creed 
When  men  were  as  beasts  that  bleed. 
As  sheep  or  as  swine  that  wallow, 
In  the  shambles  of  faith  and  of  fear. 


82       g>rlect  poemfi  of  ^tDinbume 

O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear  ! 

Yet  it  may  be,  lord  and  father,  could  we  know  it. 
We  that  love  thee  for  our  darkness  shall  have 
light 
More  than  ever  prophet  hailed  of  old  or  poet 
Standing  crowned  and  robed  and  sovereign  in 
thy  sight. 
To  the  likeness  of  one  God  their  dreams  en- 
thralled thee, 
Who  wast  greater  than  all  Gods  that  waned 
and  grew  ; 
Son  of  God  the  shining  son  of  Time  they  called 
thee. 
Who   wast   older,  O    our   father,  than   they 
knew. 
For  no  thought  of  man  made  Gods  to  love  or 
honour 
Ere  the  song  within  the  silent  soul  began, 
Nor  might  earth  in  dream  or  deed  take  heaven 
upon  her 
Till  the  word  was  clothed  with  speech  by  lips 
of  man. 
And  the  word  and  the  life  wast  thou. 
The  spirit  of  man  and  the  breath  ; 
And  before  thee  the  Gods  that  bow 
Take  life  at  thine  hands  and  death. 


tK^t  M&t  (Oracle  83 

For  these  are  as  ghosts  that  wane, 
That  are  gone  in  an  age  or  twain ; 
Harsh,  merciful,  passionate,  pure. 
They  perish,  but  thou  shalt  endure ; 
Be  their  flight  with  the  swan  or  the  swallow, 
They  pass  as  the  flight  of  a  year. 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear  ! 

Thou  the  word,  the  light,  the  life,  the  breath,  the 
glory. 
Strong  to  help  and  heal,  to  lighten  and  to  slay. 
Thine  is  all  the  song  of  man,  the  world's  whole 
story  ; 
Not  of  morning  and  of  evening  is  thy  day. 
Old  and  younger  Gods  are  buried  or  begotten 

From  uprising  to  downsetting  of  thy  sun. 
Risen   from  eastward,  fallen    to  westward  and 
forgotten. 
And  their  springs  are  many,  but  their  end  is 
one. 
Divers  births  of  godheads  find  one  death  ap- 
pointed. 
As  the   soul  whence  each  was  born  makes 
room  for  each ; 
God   by   God   goes  out,   discrowned  and    dis- 
anointed. 


84       Select  |3oem0  of  ^fcoinbunte 

But  the  soul  stands  fast  that  gave  them  shape 
and  speech. 
Is  the  sun  yet  cast  out  of  heaven  ? 

Is  the  song  yet  cast  out  of  man  ? 
Life  that  had  song  for  its  leaven 
To  quicken  the  blood  that  ran 
Through  the  veins  of  the  songless  years 
More  bitter  and  cold  than  tears. 
Heaven  that  had  thee  for  its  one 
Light,  life,  word,  witness,  O  sun, 
Are  they  soundless  and  sightless  and  hol- 
low. 
Without  eye,  without  speech,   without 
ear  ? 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear ! 

Time  arose  and  smote  thee  silent  at  his  warn- 
ing, 
Change  and  darkness  fell  on  men  that  fell 
from  thee ; 
Dark  thou  satest,  veiled  with  light,  behind  the 
morning, 
Till  the  soul  of  man  should  lift  up  eyes  and  see. 
Till  the  blind  mute  soul  get  speech  again  and 
eyesight, 
Man  may  worship  not  the  light  of  life  within ; 
In  his  sight  the  stars  whose  fires  grow  dark  in 
thy  sight 


^^e  !U£ft  msiclt  85 

Shine  as  sunbeams  on  the  night  of  death  and 
sin. 
Time   again    is    risen    with    mightier    word  of 
warning, 
Change  hath  blown  again  a  blast  of  louder 
breath  ; 
Clothed  with  clouds  and  stars  and  dreams  that 
melt  in  morning, 
Lo,  the  Gods  that  ruled  by  grace  of  sin  and 
death  ! 
They  are  conquered,  they  break,  they  are 
stricken. 
Whose  might  made  the  whole  world  pale; 
They  are  dust  that  shall  rise  not  or  quicken 
Though  the  world  for  their  death's  sake 
wail. 
As  a  hound  on  a  wild  beast's  trace. 
So  time  has  their  godhead  in  chase  ; 
As  wolves  when  the  hunt  makes  head. 
They  are  scattered,  they  fly,  they  are  fled; 
They  are  fled  beyond  hail,  beyond  hollo. 
And  the  cry  of  the  chase,  and  the  cheer. 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear  ! 

Day  by  day  thy  shadow  shines  in  heaven  be- 
holden. 
Even  the  sun,  the  shining  shadow  of  thy  face: 


86       Select  |0oem0  of  ^tombume 

King,  the  ways  of  heaven  before  thy  feet  grow 
golden  ; 
God,  the  soul  of  earth  is  kindled  with  thy 
grace. 
In  thy  lips  the  speech  of  man  whence  Gods 
were  fashioned, 
In  thy  soul  the  thought  that  makes  them  and 
unmakes  ; 
By  thy  light  and  heat  incarnate  and  impassioned. 
Soul  to  soul  of  man  gives  light   for  light  and 
takes. 
As  they  knew  thy  name  of  old  time  could  we 
know  it. 
Healer  called  of  sickness,  slayer  invoked  of 
wrong. 
Light  of  eyes  that  saw  thy  light,  God,  king, 
priest,  poet. 
Song  should  bring  thee  back  to  heal  us  with 
thy  song. 
For  thy  kingdom  is  past  not  away, 

Nor  thy  power  from  the  place  thereof 
hurled  ; 
Out  of  heaven  they  shall  cast  not  the  day. 
They  shall  cast  not  out  song  from  the 
world. 
By  the  song  and  the  light  they  give 
We  know  thy  works  that  they  live ; 
With  the  gift  thou  hast  given  us  of  speech 


J^ertlja  87 

We  praise,  we  adore,  we  beseech, 
We  arise  at  thy  bidding  and  follow, 
We  cry  to  thee,  answer,  appear, 
O  father  of  all  of  us,  Paian,  Apollo, 
Destroyer  and  healer,  hear  ! 


HERTHA 

I  AM  that  which  began ; 

Out  of  me  the  years  roll ; 
Out  of  me  God  and  man  ; 
I  am  equal  and  Whole ; 
God  changes,  and  man,  and  the  form  of  them 
bodily  ;   I  am  the  soul. 

Before  ever  land  was, 
Before  ever  the  sea, 
Or  soft  hair  of  the  grass, 
Or  fair  limbs  of  the  tree, 
Or  the  flesh-coloured  fruit  of  my  branches,  I  was, 
and  thy  soul  was  in  me. 

First  life  on  my  sources 

First  drifted  and  swam  ; 
Out  of  me  are  the  forces 
That  save  it  or  damn  ; 
Out  of  me  man  and  woman,  and  wild-beast  and 
bird ;  before  God  was,  I  am. 


88       Select  poem0  of  ^toinbume 

Beside  or  above  me 

Nought  is  there  to  go  ; 
Love  or  unlove  me, 
Unlcnow  me  or  know, 
I  am  that  which  unloves  me  and  loves ;  I  am 
stricken,  and  I  am  the  blow. 

I  the  mark  that  is  missed 

And  the  arrows  that  miss, 
I  the  mouth  that  is  kissed 
And  the  breath  in  the  kiss, 
The  search,  and  the  sought,  and  the  seeker,  the 
soul  and  the  body  that  is. 

I  am  that  thing  which  blesses 

My  spirit  elate  ; 
That  which  caresses 
With  hands  uncreate 
My  limbs  unbegotten  that  measure  the  length 
of  the  measure  of  fate. 

But  what  thing  dost  thou  now. 
Looking  Godward,  to  cry 
"  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou, 

I  am  low,  thou  art  high  ?  " 
I  am  thou,  whom  thou  seekest  to  find  him  j  find 
thou  but  thyself,  thou  art  L 


l^ertl)a  89 

I  the  grain  and  the  furrow, 
The  plough-cloven  clod 
And  the  ploughshare  drawn  thorough, 
The  germ  and  the  sod, 
The  deed  and  the  doer,  the  seed  and  the  sower, 
the  dust  which  is  God. 

Hast  thou  known  how  I  fashioned  thee, 

Child,  underground  ? 
Fire  that  impassioned  thee. 
Iron  that  bound. 
Dim  changes  of  water,  what  thing  of  all  these 
hast  thou  known  of  or  found  ? 

Canst  thou  say  in  thine  heart 

Thou  has  seen  with  thine  eyes 
With  what  cunning  of  art 

Thou  wast  wrought  in  what  wise. 
By  what  force  of  what  stuff  thou  wast  shapen, 
and  shown  on  my  breast  to  the  skies  ? 

Who  hath  given,  who  hath  sold  it  thee, 

Knowledge  of  me  ? 
Hath  the  wilderness  told  it  thee  ?   . 
Hast  thou  learnt  of  the  sea  ? 
Hast  thou  communed  in  spirit  with  night  ?  have 
the  winds  taken  counsel  with  thee  ? 


90       Select  l^otma  of  ^toinburne 

Have  I  set  such  a  star 

To  show  light  on  thy  brow 
That  thou  sawest  from  afar 
What  I  show  to  thee  now  ? 
Have  ye  spoken  as  brethren  together,  the  sun 
and  the  mountains  and  thou? 

What  is  here,  dost  thou  know  it  ? 

What  was,  hast  thou  known  ? 
Prophet  nor  poet 

Nor  tripod  nor  throne 
Nor  spirit  nor  flesh  can  make  answer,  but  only 
thy  mother  alone. 

Mother,  not  maker, 

Born,  and  not  made  ; 
Though  her  children  forsake  her, 
Allured  or  afraid, 
Praying  prayers  to  the  God  of  their  fashion,  she 
stirs  not  for  all  that  have  prayed. 

A  creed  is  a  rod. 

And  a  crown  is  of  night ; 
But  this  thing  is  God, 

To  be  man  with  thy  might, 
To  grow  straight  in  the  strength  of  thy  spirit, 
and  live  out  thy  life  as  the  light. 


I^ert^a  91 

I  am  in  thee  to  save  thee, 

As  my  soul  in  thee  saith, 
Give  thou  as  I  gave  thee, 
Thy  life-blood  and  breath, 
Green  leaves  of  thy  labour,  white  flowers  of  thy 
thought,  and  red  fruit  of  thy  death. 

Be  the  ways  of  thy  giving 

As  mine  were  to  thee  ; 

The  free  life  of  thy  living. 

Be  the  gift  of  it  free  ; 

Not  as  servant  to  lord,  nor  as  master  to  slave, 

shalt  thou  give  thee  to  me. 

0  children  of  banishment. 
Souls  overcast. 

Were  the  lights  ye  see  vanish  meant 
Alway  to  last. 
Ye   would  know  not  the  sun  overshining   the 
shadows  and  stars  overpast. 

1  that  saw  where  ye  trod 

The  dim  paths  of  the  night 
Set  the  shadow  called  God 
In  your  skies  to  give  light ; 
But  the  morning  of  manhood  is  risen,  and  the 
shadowless  soul  is  in  sight. 


92       Select  :|poettisf  of  ^iMinbume 

The  tree  many-rooted 

That  swells  to  the  sky 
With  frondage  red-fruited. 
The  life-tree  am  I  ; 
In  the  buds  of  your  lives  is  the  sap  of  my  leaves  : 
ye  shall  live  and  not  die. 

But  the  Gods  of  your  fashion 

That  take  and  that  give, 
In  their  pity  and  passion 
That  scourge  and  forgive, 
They  are  worms  that  are  bred  in  the  bark  that 
falls  off:  they  shall  die  and  not  live. 

My  own  blood  is  what  stanches 

The  wounds  in  my  bark ; 
Stars  caught  in  my  branches 
Make  day  of  the  dark. 
And  are  worshipped  as  suns  till  the  sunrise  shall 
tread  out  their  fires  as  a  spark. 

Where  dead  ages  hide  under 

The  live  roots  of  the  tree. 

In  my  darkness  the  thunder 

Makes  utterance  of  me  ; 

In  the  clash  of  my  boughs  with  each  other  ye 

hear  the  waves  sound  of  the  sea. 


l^ert^a  93 

That  noise  is  of  Time, 

As  his  feathers  are  spread 
And  his  feet  set  to  climb 

Through  the  boughs  overhead, 
And  my  foHage  rings  round  him  and  rustles,  and 
branches  are  bent  with  his  tread. 

The  storm-winds  of  ages 

Blow  through  me  and  cease. 
The  war-wind  that  rages. 
The  spring-wind  of  peace. 
Ere  the  breath  of  them  roughen  my  tresses,  ere 
one  of  my  blossoms  increase. 

AH  sounds  of  all  changes, 
All  shadows  and  lights 
On  the  world's  mountain-ranges 
And  stream-riven  heights. 
Whose  tongue  is  the  wind's  tongue    and  lan- 
guage of  storm-clouds  on  earth-shaking 
nights  ; 

All  forms  of  all  faces, 

All  works  of  all  hands 
In  unsearchable  places 
Of  time-stricken  lands, 
All  death  and  all  life,  and  all  reigns  and  all  ruins, 
drop  through  me  as  sands. 


94       Select  :|poetttfif  of  ^toinburne 

Though  sore  be  my  burden 
And  more  than  ye  know, 
And  my  growth  have  no  guerdon 
But  only  to  grow. 
Yet  I   fail  not  of  growing  for  lightnings  above 
me  or  deathworms  below. 

These  too  have  their  part  in  me, 

As  I  too  in  these; 
Such  fire  is  at  heart  in  me, 
Such  sap  is  this  tree's, 
Which  hath  in  it  all  sounds  and  all  secrets  of 
infinite  lands  and  of  seas. 

In  the  spring-coloured  hours 

When  my  mind  was  as  May's, 
There  brake  forth  of  me  flowers 
By  centuries  of  days, 
Strong  blossoms  with  perfume  of  manhood,  shot 
out  from  my  spirit  as  rays. 

And  the  sound  of  them  springing 

And  smell  of  their  shoots 
Were  as  warmth  and  sweet  singing 
And  strength  to  my  roots ; 
And  the  lives  of  my  children  made  perfect  with 
freedom  of  soul  were  my  fruits. 


J^ert^a  95 

I  bid  you  but  be  ; 

I  have  need  not  of  prayer  ; 
I  have  need  of  you  free 

As  your  mouths  of  mine  air; 
That   my  heart   may  be  greater  within  me,  be- 
holding the  fruits  of  me  fair. 

More  fair  than  strange  fruit  is 

Of  faiths  ye  espouse  ; 
In  me  only  the  root  is 

That  blooms  in  your  boughs  ; 
Behold  now  your  God  that  ye  made  you,  to  feed 
him  with  faith  of  your  vows. 

In  the  darkening  and  whitening 

Abysses  adored, 
With  dayspring  and  lightning 
For  lamp  and  for  sword, 
God  thunders  in  heaven,  and  his  angels  are  red 
with  the  wrath  of  the  Lord. 

O  my  sons,  O  too  dutiful 

Toward  Gods  not  of  me. 
Was  not  I  enough  beautiful  ? 
Was  it  hard  to  be  free  ? 
For  behold,  I  am  with  you,  am  in  you  and  of 
you  ;  look  forth  now  and  see. 


96       Select  Ij^ottne  of  ^tDinbume 

Lo,  winged  with  world's  wonders, 

With  miracles  shod, 
With  the  fires  of  his  thunders 
For  raiment  and  rod, 
God    trembles    in   heaven,  and  his   angels  are 
white  with  the  terror  of  God. 


For  his  twilight  is  come  on  him, 

His  anguish  is  here  ; 
And  his  spirits  gaze  dumb  on  him, 
Grown  grey  from  his  fear  j 
And  his  hour  taketh   hold  on  him  stricken,  the 
last  of  his  infinite  year. 

Thought  made  him  and  breaks  him. 

Truth  slays  and  forgives  ; 
But  to  you,  as  time  takes  him. 
This  new  thing  it  gives, 
Even   love,  the   beloved    Republic,   that    feeds 
upon  freedom  and  lives. 

For  truth  only  is  living. 
Truth  only  is  whole. 
And  the  love  of  his  giving 
Man's  polestar  and  pole  ; 
Man,  pulse  of  my  centre,  and  fruit  of  my  body, 
and  seed  of  my  soul. 


J^^mn  of  £pan  97 

One  birth  of  my  bosom  ; 

One  beam  of  mine  eye  ; 
One  topmost  blossom 
That  scales  the  sky  ; 
Man,  equal  and  one  with  me,  man  that  is  made 
of  me,  man  that  is  I. 


HYMN  OF  MAN 

(during  the  session  in  ROME  OF  THE 
OECUMENICAL  COUNCIL) 

In  the  grey  beginning  of  years,  in  the  twilight 

of  things  that  began. 
The  word  of  the  earth  in  the  ears  of  the  world, 

was  it  God  ?  was  it  man  ? 
The  word  of  the  earth  to  the  spheres  her  sisters, 

the  note  of  her  song. 
The  sound  of  her  speech  in  the  ears  of  the  starry 

and  sisterly  throng. 
Was  it  praise  or  passion  or  prayer,  was  it  love 

or  devotion  or  dread. 
When  the  veils  of  the  shining  air  first  wrapt  her 

jubilant  head  ? 
When  her  eyes  new-born  of  the  night  saw  yet 

no  star  out  of  reach  ; 
When   her  maiden  mouth  was  alight  with   the 

flame  of  musical  speech; 


98       Select  ^poem0  of  ^tomburne 

When  her  virgin  feet  were  set  on  the  terrible 

heavenly  way, 
And  her  virginal  lids  were  wet  with  the  dew  of 

the  birth  of  the  day  : 
Eyes  that  had  looked  not  on  time,  and  ears  that 

had  heard  not  of  death  ; 
Lips  that  had   learnt  not  the  rhyme  of  change 

and  passionate  breath. 
The  rhythmic  anguish  of  growth,  and  the  motion 

of  mutable  things, 
Of  love  that  longs  and  is  loth,  and  plume-plucked 

hope  without  wings. 
Passions  and  pains  without  number,  and  life  that 

runs  and  is  lame. 
From  slumber  again  to  slumber,  the  same  race 

set  for  the  same. 
Where  the  runners  outwear  each  other,  but  run- 
ning with  lampless  hands 
No  man  takes  light  from  his  brother  till  blind  at 

the  goal  he  stands  : 
Ah,  did  they  know,  did  they  dream  of  it,  count- 
ing the  cost  and  the  worth  ? 
The  ways  of  her  days,  did  they  seem  then  good 

to  the  new-souled  earth  ? 
Did  her  heart  rejoice,  and  the  might  of  her  spirit 

exult  in  her  then. 
Child  yet  no  child  of  the  night,  and  motherless 

mother  of  men  ? 


i 


^^mn  of  ^an  99 

Was  it  Love  brake  forth   flower-fashion,  a  bird 

with  gold  on  his  wings, 
Lovely,  her  firstborn    passion,  and   impulse  of 

firstborn  things  ? 
Was  Love  that   nestling  indeed  that  under  the 

plumes  of  the  night 
Was  hatched  and  hidden  as  seed  in  the  furrow, 

and  brought  forth  bright  ? 
Was  it  Love  lay  shut  in  the  shell  world-shaped, 

having  over  him  there 
Black  world-wide  wings  that   impel   the  might 

of  the  night  through  air  ? 
And  bursting   his  shell  as  a   bird,   night  shook 

through  her  sail-stretched  vans, 
And  her  heart  as  a  water  was   stirred,   and  its 

heat  was  the  firstborn  man's. 
For  the  waste  of  the  dead  void  air  took  form  of 

a  world  at  birth. 
And  the  waters  and  firmaments  were,  and  light, 

and  the  life-giving  earth. 
The  beautiful  bird  unbegotten  that  night  brought 

forth  without  pain 
In  the  fathomless  years  forgotten  whereover  the 

dead  gods  reign. 
Was  it  love,  life,  godhead,  or  fate  .?  we  say  the 

spirit  is  one 
That  moved  on  the  dark  to  create  out  of  dark- 
ness the  stars  and  the  sun. 


100      g)elect  poemtf  of  ^iuinbume 

Before  the  growth  was  the  grower,  and  the  seed 

ere  the  plant  was  sown  ; 
But  what  was  seed  of  the  sower  ?  and  the  grain 

of  him,  whence  was  it  grown  ? 
Foot  after  foot  ye  go  back  and  travail  and  make 

yourselves  mad  ; 
Blind  feet  that  feel  for  the  track  where  highway 

is  none  to  be  had. 
Therefore  the  God  that  ye  make  you  is  grievous, 

and  gives  not  aid. 
Because  it  is  but  for  your  sake  that  the  God  of 

your  making  is  made. 
Thou  and  I  and  he  are  not  gods  made  men  for 

a  span. 
But  God,  if  a  God  there  be,  is  the  substance  of 

men  which  is  man. 
Our  lives  are  as  pulses  or  pores  of  his  manifold 

body  and  breath ; 
As  waves  of  his  sea  on  the  shores  where  birth  is 

the  beacon  of  death. 
We  men,  the  multiform  features  of  man,  what- 
soever we  be. 
Recreate  him  of  whom  we  are  creatures,  and  all 

we  only  are  he. 
For  each  man  of  all  men  is  God,  but  God  is  the 

fruit  of  the  whole  ; 
Indivisible   spirit  and  blood,  indiscernible  body 

from  soul. 


\ 


l^^mnof^an  loi 

Not  men's  but  man's  is  the  glory  of  godhead, 
the  kingdom  of  time, 

The  mountainous  ages  made  hoary  with  snows 
for  the  spirit  to  climb. 

A  God  with  the  world  inwound  whose  clay  to 
his  footsole  clings  ; 

A  manifold  God  fast-bound  as  with  iron  of  ad- 
verse things. 

A  soul  that  labours  and  lives,  an  emotion,  a 
strenuous  breath. 

From  the  flame  that  its  own  mouth  gives  re- 
illumed,  and  refreshed  with  death. 

In  the  sea  whereof  centuries  are  waves  the  live 
God  plunges  and  swims  ; 

His  bed  is  in  all  men's  graves,  but  the  worm 
hath  not  hold  on  his  limbs. 

Night  puts  out  not  his  eyes,  nor  time  sheds 
change  on  his  head  ; 

With  such  fire  as  the  stars  of  the  skies  are  the 
roots  of  his  heart  are  fed. 

Men  are  the  thoughts  passing  through  it,  the 
veins  that  fulfil  it  with  blood. 

With  spirit  of  sense  to  renew  it  as  springs  ful- 
filling a  flood. 

Men  are  the  heartbeats  of  man,  the  plumes  that 
feather  his  wings. 

Storm-worn,  since  being  began,  with  th'e  wind 
and  thunder  of  things. 


1 02      Select  |Boem0  of  ^toinbume 

Things  are  cruel  and  blind  ;  their  strength  detains 

and  deforms : 
And  the  wearying  wings  of  the  mind  still  beat 

up  the  stream  of  their  storms. 
Still,  as  one  swimming  up  stream,  they  strike  out 

blind  in  the  blast, 
In  thunders  of  vision  and  dream,  and  lightnings 

of  future  and  past. 
We  are  baffled  and  caught  in   the  current  and 

bruised  upon  edges  of  shoals  ; 
As  weeds  or  as  reeds   in   the  torrent  of  things 

are  the  wind-shaken  souls. 
Spirit  by  spirit  goes  under,  a  foam-bell's  bubble 

of  breath, 
That  blows  and  opens  in  sunder  and  blurs  nor 

the  mirror  of  death. 
For  a  worm  or  a  thorn  in  his  path  is  a  man's 

soul  quenched  as  a  flame; 
For  his  lust  of  an  hour  or  his  wrath  shall  the 

worm  and  the  man  be  the  same. 
O    God    sore   stricken    of   things !    they    have 

wrought  him  a  raiment  of  pain  ; 
Can  a  God  shut  eyelids  and  wings  at  a  touch  on 

the  nerves  of  the  brain  ? 
O  shamed  and  sorrowful  God,  whose  force  goes 

out  at  a  blow  ! 
What  world  shall  shake  at  his  nod  ?  at  his  com- 
ing what  wilderness  glow  ? 


J^^mn  of  ^an  103 

What   help  in   the  work  of  his  hands  ?    what 

light  in  the  track  of  his  feet  ? 
His  days  are  snowflakes  or  sands,  with  cold  to 

consume  him  and  heat. 
He  is  servant   with    Change  for   lord,  and  for 

wages  he  hath  to  his  hire 
Folly  and  force,  and  a  sword  that  devours,  and 

a  ravening  fire. 
From  the  bed  of  his  birth  to  his  grave  he  is  driven 

as  a  wind  at  their  will ; 
Lest  Change  bow  down  as  his  slave,  and    the 

storm  and  the  sword  be  still ; 
Lest  earth   spread  open   her  wings  to  the  sun- 
ward, and  sing  with  the  spheres ; 
Lest  man  be  master  of  things,  to  prevail  on  their 

forces  and  fears. 
By  the  spirit  are  things  overcome  ;  they  are  stark, 

and  the  spirit  hath  breath  ; 
It  hath  speech,  and  their  forces  are  dumb ;   it  is 

living,  and  things  are  of  death. 
But  they  know  not  the  spirit  for  master,  they 

feel  not  force  from  above. 
While   man  makes    love    to  disaster,  and  woos 

desolation  with  love. 
Yea,  himself  too  hath  made  himself  chains,  and 

his  own  hands  plucked  out  his  eyes  ; 
For  his  own  soul  only  constrains  him,  his  own 

mouth  only  denies. 


104      Select  IDoems;  of  ^tombume 

The  herds  of  kings  and  their  hosts  and  the  flocks 

of  the  high  priests  bow 
To  a  master  whose  face  is  a  ghost's ;   O  thou 

that  wast  God,  is  it  thou  ? 
Thou  madest  man  in  the  garden  ;  thou  tempt- 

edst  man,  and  he  fell ; 
Thou  gavest  him  poison  and  pardon  for  blood 

and  burnt-ofFering  to  sell. 
Thou  hast  sealed  thine  elect  to  salvation,  fast 

locked  with  faith  for  the  key ; 
Make  now  for   thyself  expiation,  and  be  thine 

atonement  for  thee. 
Ah,  thou  that  darkenest  heaven  —  ah,  thou  that 

bringest  a  sword  — 
By  the  crimes  of  thine  hands  unforgiven  they 

beseech  thee  to  hear  them,  O  Lord. 
By  the  balefires  of  ages  that  burn   for  thine  in- 
cense, by  creed  and  by  rood. 
By  the  famine  and  passion  that  yearn  and  that 

hunger  to  find  of  thee  food. 
By  the  children  that  asked  at  thy  throne  of  the 

priests  that  were  fat  with  thine  hire 
For  bread,  and  thou  gavest  a  stone  ;   for  light, 

and  thou  madest  them  fire ; 
By  the  kiss  of  thy  peace  like  a  snake's  kiss,  that 

leaves  the  soul  rotten  at  root ; 
By  the  savours  of  gibbets  and  stakes  thou  hast 

planted  to  bear  to  thee  fruit; 


l^^mn  of  ^an  105 

By  torture  and  terror  and  treason,  that  make  to 

thee  weapons  and  wings  ; 
By  thy  power  upon  men  for  a  season,  made  out 

of  the  malice  of  things  ; 
O  thou  that  hast  built  thee  a  shrine  of  the  mad- 
ness of  man  and  his  shame, 
And  hast   hung  in   the  midst   for  a  sign  of  his 

worship  the  lamp  of  thy  name  ; 
That   hast    shown   him  for  heaven  in   a  vision 

a  void  world's  shadow  and  shell, 
And  hast  fed  thy  delight  and  derision  with  fire 

of  belief  as  of  hell ; 
That  hast  fleshed  on  the  souls  that  believe  thee 

the  fang  of  the  death-worm  fear, 
With  anguish  of  dreams  to  deceive  them  whose 

faith  cries  out  in  thine  ear; 
By  the  face  of  the  spirit  confounded  before  thee 

and  humbled  in  dust. 
By  the  dread  wherewith  life  was  astounded  and 

shamed  out  of  sense  of  its  trust, 
By  the  scourges  of  doubt   and  repentance  that 

fell  on  the  soul  at  thy  nod, 
Thou  art  judged,  O  judge,  and  the  sentence  is 

gone  forth  against  thee,  O  God. 
Thy  slave  that   slept  is  awake ;    thy  slave  but 

slept  for  a  span  ; 
Yea,  man  thy  slave  shall  unmake  thee,  who  made 

thee  lord  over  man. 


io6      Select  poems;  of  ^tombume 

For  his  face  is  set  to  the  east,  his  feet  on  the 

past  and  its  dead  ; 
The   sun  rearisen   is    his   priest,  and  the   heat 

thereof  hallows  his  head. 
His  eyes  take   part  in  the  morning ;  his  spirit 

outsounding  the  sea 
Asks  no  more  witness  or  warning  from  temple 

or  tripod  or  tree. 
He  hath  set  the  centuries  at  union  ;  the  night  is 

afraid  at  his  name  ; 
Equal  with  life,  in  communion  with  death,  he 

hath  found  them  the  same. 
Past  the  wall  unsurmounted  that  bars  out  our 

vision  with  iron  and  fire 
He  hath  sent  forth  his  soul  for  the  stars  to  com- 
ply with  and  suns  to  conspire. 
His  thought  takes  flight  for  the  centre  where- 
through it  hath  part  in  the  whole ; 
The  abysses  forbid  it  not  enter  :  the  stars  make 

room  for  the  soul. 
Space  is  the  soul's  to  inherit;  the  night  is  hers 

as  the  day  ; 
Lo,  saith  man,  this  is  my  spirit ;  how  shall  not 

the  worlds  make  way  ? 
Space  is  thought's,  and  the  wonders  thereof,  and 

the  secret  of  space  ; 
Is    thought  not  more  than    the    thunders    and 

lightnings  ?  shall  thought  give  place  ? 


J^^mn  of  $pan  107 

Is  the  body  not  more  than  the  vesture,  the  life 

not  more  than  the  meat  ? 
The  will  than  the  word  or  the  gesture,  the  heart 

than  the  hands  or  the  feet  ? 
Is  the  tongue  not  more  than  the  speech  is  ?  the 

head  not  more  than  the  crown  ? 
And  if  higher  than  is  heaven  be  the  reach  of  the 

soul,  shall  not  heaven  bow  down  ? 
Time,  father  of  life,  and  more  great  than  the 

life  it  begat  and  began. 
Earth's  keeper  and  heaven's  and  their  fate,  lives, 

thinks,  and  hath  substance  in  man. 
Time's  motion  that  throbs  in  his  blood  is  the 

thought  that  gives  heart  to  the  skies. 
And  the  springs  of  the  fire  that  is  food  to  the 

sunbeams  are  light  to  his  eyes. 
The  minutes  that  beat  with  his  heart  are  the 

words  to  which  worlds  keep  chime. 
And  the  thought    in  his   pulses  is    part   of  the 

blood  and  the  spirit  of  time. 
He  saith  to  the  ages.  Give ;   and  his  soul   fore- 
goes not  her  share ; 
Who  are  ye  that  forbid  him  to  live,  and  would 

feed  him  with  heavenlier  air  ? 
Will  ye  feed  him  with  poisonous  dust,  and  re- 
store him  with  hemlock  for  drink. 
Till  he  yield  you  his  soul  up  in  trust,  and  have 

heart  not  to  know  or  to  think .? 


io8      Select  Jj^otma  of  ^tomburne 

He  hath  stirred  him,  and  found  out  the  flaw  in 

his  fetters,  and  cast  them  behind ; 
His  soul  to  his  soul  is  a  law,  and  his  mind  is 

a  light  to  his  mind. 
The  seal  of  his  knowledge  is  sure,  the  truth  and 

his  spirit  are  wed  ; 
Men   perish,  but    man   shall  endure ;  lives  die, 

but  the  life  is  not  dead. 
He  hath  sight  of  the  secrets  of  season,  the  roots 

of  the  years  and  the  fruits  ; 
His  soul  is  at  one  with  the  reason  of  things  that 

is  sap  to  the  roots. 
He  can  hear  in  their  changes  a  sound  as   the 

conscience  of  consonant  spheres  ; 
He   can  see  through  the   years   flowing   round 

him  the  law  lying  under  the  years. 
Who  are  ye  that  would  bind  him  with  curses 

and  blind  him  with  vapour  of  prayer? 
Your  might  is  as  night  that  disperses  when  light 

is  alive  in  the  air. 
The  bow  of  your  godhead  is  broken,  the  arm 

of  your  conquest  is  stayed  ; 
Though  ye  call  down  God  to  bear  token,  for 

fear  of  you  none  is  afraid. 
Will  ye  turn  back  times,  and  the  courses  of 

stars,  and  the  season  of  souls  ? 
Shall  God's  breath  dry  up  the  sources  that  feed 

time  full  as  it  rolls  ? 


Nay,  cry  on  him  then  till  he  show  you  a  sign, 

till  he  lift  up  a  rod  ; 
Hath  he  made  not  the  nations  to  know  him  of 

old  if  indeed  he  be  God  ? 
Is  no  heat  of  him  left  in  the  ashes  of  thousands 

burnt  up  for  his  sake  ? 
Can  prayer  not  rekindle  the  flashes  that  shone 

in  his  face  from  the  stake  ? 
Cry  aloud;  for  your  God  is  a  God  and  a  Saviour; 

cry,  make  yourselves  lean  ; 
Is  he  drunk  or  asleep,  that  the  rod  of  his  wrath 

is  unfelt  and  unseen  ? 
Is  the  fire  of  his  old  loving-kindness  gone  out, 

that  his  pyres  are  acold  ? 
Hath  he  gazed  on  himself  unto  blindness,  who 

made  men  blind  to  behold  ? 
Cry  out,  for  his  kingdom  is  shaken  ;  cry  out,  for 

the  people  blaspheme  ; 
Cry  aloud  till  his  godhead  awaken  ;  what  doth 

he  to  sleep  and  to  dream  ? 
Cry,  cut  yourselves,  gash  you  with  knives  and 

with  scourges,  heap  on  to  you  dust ; 
Is  his  life  but  as  other  gods'  lives  ?   is  not  this 

the  Lord  God  of  your  trust  ? 
Is  not  this  the  great  God  of  your  sires,  that  with 

souls  and  with  bodies  was  fed. 
And  the  world  was  on  flame  with  his  fires  ?    O 

fools,  he  was  God,  and  is  dead. 


1 1  o      Select  ipoemg  of  ^toinburnc 

He  will  hear  not  again  the  strong  crying  of  earth 

in  his  ears  as  before, 
And  the  fume  of  his  multitudes  dying  shall  flatter 

his  nostrils  no  more. 
By  the  spirit  he  ruled  as  his  slave  is  he  slain 

who  was  mighty  to  slay. 
And  the  stone  that  is  sealed  on  his  grave  he 

shall  rise  not  and  roll  not  away. 
Yea,  weep  to  him,  lift  up  your  hands ;   be  your 

eyes  as  a  fountain  of  tears  ; 
Where  he  stood  there  is  nothing  that  stands ;  if 

he  call,  there  is  no  man  that  hears. 
He  hath  doffed  his  king's  raiment  of  lies  now 

the  wane  of  his  kingdom  is  come ; 
Ears  hath  he,  and  hears  not ;  and  eyes,  and  he 

sees  not ;  and  mouth,  and  is  dumb. 
His  red  king's  raiment  is  ripped  from  him  naked, 

his  staff  broken  down  ; 
And  the  signs  of  his  empire  are  stripped  from 

him  shuddering  ;  and  where  is  his  crown  ? 
And  in  vain  by  the  wellsprings  refrozen  ye  cry 

for  the  warmth  of  his  sun  — 
O  God,  the  Lord  God  of  thy  chosen,  thy  will 

in  thy  kingdom  be  done. 
Kingdom  and  will  hath  he  none  in  him  left  him, 

nor  warmth  in  his  breath ; 
Till  his  corpse  be  cast  out  of  the  sun  will  ye 

know  not  the  truth  of  his  death  ? 


J^^mn  of  ^an  1 1 1 

Surely,  ye  say,  he  is  strong,  though  the  times  be 

against  him  and  men  ; 
Yet  a  little,  ye  say,  and  how  long,  till  he  come 

to  show  judgment  again  ? 
Shall  God  then  die  as  the  beasts  die  ?  who  is  it 

hath  broken  his  rod  ? 
O  God,  Lord  God  of  thy  priests,  rise  up  now 

and  show  thyself  God. 
They  cry  out,  thine  elect,  thine   aspirants   to 

heavenward,  whose  faith  is  as  flame  ; 
O  thou  the  Lord  God  of  our  tyrants,  they  call 

thee,  their  God,  by  thy  name. 
By  thy  name  that  in  hell-fire  was  written,  and 

burned  at  the  point  of  thy  sword. 
Thou  art  smitten,  thou  God,  thou  art  smitten, 

thy  death  is  upon  thee,  O  Lord. 
And  the  love-song  of  earth  as  thou  diest  re- 
sounds through  the  wind  of  her  wings  — 
Glory  to  Man  in  the  highest !   for  Man  is  the 

master  of  things. 


SONGS    BEFORE    SUNRISE 


PRELUDE 


Between  the  green  bud  and  the  red 
Youth  sat  and  sang  by  Time,  and  shed 

From  eyes  and  tresses  flowers  and  tears, 

From  heart  and  spirit  hopes  and  fears. 
Upon  the  hollow  stream  whose  bed 

Is  channelled  by  the  foamless  years  ; 
And  with  the  white  the  gold-haired  head 

Mixed  running  locks,  and  in  Time's  ears 
Youth's  dreams  hung  singing,  and  Time's  truth 
Was  half  not  harsh  in  the  ears  of  Youth. 

Between  the  bud  and  the  blown  flower 
Youth  talked  with  joy  and  grief  an  hour, 

With  footless  joy  and  wingless  grief 

And  twin-born  faith  and  disbelief 
Who  share  the  seasons  to  devour; 

And  long  ere  these  made  up  their  sheaf 
Felt  the  winds  round  him  shake  and  shower 

The  rose-red  and  the  blood-red  leaf, 
Delight  whose  germ  grew  never  grain, 
And  passion  dyed  in  its  own  pain. 


prelutje  113 

Then  he  stood  up,  and  trod  to  dust 
Fear  and  desire,  mistrust  and  trust. 

And  dreams  of  bitter  sleep  and  sweet, 

And  bound  for  sandals  on  his  feet 
Knowledge  and  patience  of  what  must 

And  what  things  may  be,  in  the  heat 
And  cold  of  years  that  rot  and  rust 

And  alter  ;  and  his  spirit's  meat 
Was  freedom,  and  his  staff  was  wrought 
Of  strength,  and  his  cloak  woven  of  thought. 

For  what  has  he  whose  will  sees  clear 
To  do  with  doubt  and  faith  and  fear, 

Swift  hopes  and  slow  despondencies  ? 

His  heart  is  equal  with  the  sea's 
And  with  the  sea-wind's,  and  his  ear 

Is  level  to  the  speech  of  these, 
And  his  soul  communes  and  takes  cheer 

With  the  actual  earth's  equalities. 
Air,  light,  and  night,  hills,  winds,  and  streams, 
And  seeks  not  strength  from  strengthless  dreams. 

His  soul  is  even  with  the  sun 
Whose  spirit  and  whose  eyes  are  one. 

Who  seeks  not  stars  by  day  nor  light 

And  heavy  heat  of  day  by  night. 
Him  can  no  God  cast  down,  whom  none 

Can  lift  in  hope  beyond  the  height 


1 14      Select  ^pormsf  of  ^iombume 

Of  fate  and  nature  and  things  done 

By  the  calm  rule  of  might  and  right 
That  bids  men  be  and  bear  and  do, 
And  die  beneath  blind  skies  or  blue. 

To  him  the  lights  of  even  and  morn 
Speak  no  vain  things  of  love  or  scorn, 

Fancies  and  passions  miscreate 

By  man  in  things  dispassionate. 
Nor  holds  he  fellowship  forlorn 

With  souls  that  pray  and  hope  and  hate, 
And  doubt  they  had  better  not  been  born, 

And  fain  would  lure  or  scare  off  fate 
And  charm  their  doomsman  from  their  doom 
And  make  fear  dig  its  own  false  tomb. 

He  builds  not  half  of  doubts  and  half 
Of  dreams  his  own  soul's  cenotaph. 

Whence  hopes  and  fears  with  helpless  eyes, 

Wrapt  loose  in  cast-ofF  cerecloths,  rise 
And  dance  and  wring  their  hands  and  laugh. 

And  weep  thin  tears  and  sigh  light  sighs. 
And  without  living  lips  would  quaff 

The  living  spring  in  man  that  lies, 
And  drain  his  soul  of  faith  and  strength 
It  might  have  lived  on  a  life's  length. 

He  hath  given  himself  and  hath  not  sold 
To  God  for  heaven  or  man  for  gold. 


:|preluue  115 

Or  grief  for  comfort  that  it  gives, 

Or  joy  for  grief's  restoratives. 
He  hath  given  himself  to  time,  whose  fold 

Shuts  in  the  mortal  flock  that  lives 
On  its  plain  pasture's  heat  and  cold 

And  the  equal  year's  alternatives. 
Earth,  heaven,  and  time,  death,  life,  and  he. 
Endure  while  they  shall  be  to  be. 

"  Yet  between  death  and  life  are  hours 
To  flush  with  love  and  hide  in  flowers ; 

What  profit  save  in  these  ?  "  men  cry : 
"  Ah,  see,  between  soft  earth  and  sky, 
What  only  good  things  here  are  ours  !  " 

They  say,  "  What  better  wouldst  thou  try, 
What  sweeter  sing  of?  or  what  powers 

Serve,  that  will  give  thee  ere  thou  die 
More  joy  to  sing  and  be  less  sad. 
More  heart  to  play  and  grow  more  glad  ? " 

Play  then  and  sing ;  we  too  have  played, 
We  likewise,  in  that  subtle  shade. 

We  too  have  twisted  through  our  hair 

Such  tendrils  as  the  wild  Loves  wear. 
And  heard  what  mirth  the  Maenads  made, 

Till  the  wind  blew  our  garlands  bare 
And  left  their  roses  disarrayed, 

And  smote  the  summer  with  strange  air. 


1 1 6     Select  poems;  of  ^toinbume 

And  disengirdled  and  discrowned 

The  limbs  and  locks  tha  vine-wreaths  bound. 

We  too  have  tracked  by  star-proof  trees 
The  tempest  of  the  Thyiades 

Scare  the  loud  night  on  hills  that  hid 

The  blood-feasts  of  the  Bassarid, 
Heard  their  song's  iron  cadences 

Fright  the  wolf  hungering  from  the  kid, 
Outroar  the  lion-throated  seas, 

Outchide  the  north-wind  if  it  chid, 
And  hush  the  torrent-tongued  ravines 
With  thunders  of  their  tambourines. 

But  the  fierce  flute  whose  notes  acclaim 
Dim  goddesses  of  fiery  fame. 

Cymbal  and  clamorous  kettledrum. 

Timbrels  and  tabrets,  all  are  dumb    ^ 
That  turned  the  high  chill  air  to  flame ; 

The  singing  tongues  of  fire  are  numb 
That  called  on  Cotys  by  her  name 

Edonian,  till  they  felt  her  come 
And  maddened,  and  her  mystic  face 
Lightened  along  the  streams  of  Thrace. 

For  Pleasure  slumberless  and  pale, 

And  Passion  with  rejected  veil, 

Pass,  and  the  tempest-footed  throng 
Of  hours  that  follow  them  with  song 


^prelttUr  117 

Till  their  feet  flag  and  voices  fail, 
And  lips  that  were  so  loud  so  long 

Learn  silence,  or  a  wearier  wail ; 

So  keen  is  change,  and  time  so  strong, 

To  weave  the  robes  of  life  and  rend 

And  weave  again  till  life  have  end. 

But  weak  is  change,  but  strengthless  time, 
To  take  the  light  from  heaven,  or  climb 

The  hills  of  heaven  with  wasting  feet. 

Songs  they  can  stop  that  earth  found  meet, 
But  the  stars  keep  their  ageless  rhyme ; 

Flowers  they  can  slay  that  spring  thought 
sweet. 
But  the  stars  keep  their  spring  sublime ; 

Passions  and  pleasures  can  defeat, 
Actions  and  agonies  control. 
And  life  and  death,  but  not  the  soul. 

Because  man's  soul  is  man's  God  still. 
What  wind  soever  waft  his  will 

Across  the  waves  of  day  and  night 

To  port  or  shipwreck,  left  or  right. 
By  shores  and  shoals  of  good  and  ill ; 

And  still  its  flame  at  mainmast  height 
Through  the  rent  air  that  foam-flakes  fill 

Sustains  the  indomitable  light 
Whence  only  man  hath  strength  to  steer 
Or  helm  to  handle  without  fear. 


1 1 8      Select  poems;  of  ^totnljume 

Save  his  own  soul's  light  overhead, 
None  leads  him,  and  none  ever  led. 

Across  birth's  hidden  harbour  bar. 

Past  youth  where  shoreward  shallows  are. 
Through  age  that  drives  on  toward  the  red 

Vast  void  of  sunset  hailed  from  far. 
To  the  equal  waters  of  the  dead  ; 

Save  his  own  soul  he  hath  no  star. 
And  sinks,  except  his  own  soul  guide, 
Helmless  in  middle  turn  of  tide. 

No  blast  of  air  or  fire  of  sun 
Puts  out  the  light  whereby  we  run 

With  girdled  loins  our  lamplit  race. 

And  each  from  each  takes  heart  of  grace 
And  spirit  till  his  turn  be  done, 

And  light  of  face  from  each  man's  face 
In  whom  the  light  of  trust  is  one ; 

Since  only  souls  that  keep  their  place 
By  their  own  light,  and  watch  things  roll. 
And  stand,  have  light  for  any  soul. 

A  little  time  we  gain  from  time 
To  set  our  seasons  in  some  chime. 
For  harsh  or  sweet  or  loud  or  low. 
With  seasons  played  out  long  ago 
And  souls  that  in  their  time  and  prime 
Took  part  with  summer  or  with  snow. 


^tena  1 19 

Lived  abject  lives  out  or  sublime, 

And  had  their  chance  of  seed  to  sow 
For  service  or  disservice  done 
To  those  days  dead  and  this  their  son. 

A  little  time  that  we  may  fill 

Or  with  such  good  works  or  such  ill 

As  loose  the  bonds  or  make  them  strong 

Wherein  all  manhood  suffers  wrong. 
By  rose-hung  river  and  light-foot  rill 

There  are  who  rest  not ;  who  think  long 
Till  they  discern  as  from  a  hill 

At  the  sun's  hour  of  morning  song, 
Known  of  souls  only,  and  those  souls  free, 
The  sacred  spaces  of  the  sea. 


SIENA 

Inside  this  northern  summer's  fold 
The  fields  are  full  of  naked  gold, 
Broadcast  from  heaven  on  lands  it  loves ; 
The  green  veiled  air  is  full  of  doves  ; 
Soft  leaves  that  sift  the  sunbeams  let 
Light  on  the  small  warm  grasses  wet 
Fall  in  short  broken  kisses  sweet. 
And  break  again  like  waves  that  beat 
Round  the  sun's  feet. 


120      Select  poems  of  ^toinbume 

But  I,  for  all  this  English  mirth 
Of  golden-shod  and  dancing  days, 

And  the  old  green-girt  sweet-hearted  earth 
Desire  what  here  no  spells  can  raise. 

Far  hence,  with  holier  heavens  above, 

The  lovely  city  of  my  love 

Bathes  deep  in  the  sun-satiate  air 

That  flows  round  no  fair  thing  more  fair 

Her  beauty  bare. 

There  the  utter  sky  is  holier,  there 

More  pure  the  intense  white  height  of  air. 

More  clear  men's  eyes  that  mine  would  meet, 

And  the  sweet  springs  of  things  more  sweet. 

There  for  this  one  warm  note  of  doves 

A  clamour  of  a  thousand  loves 

Storms  the  night's  ear,  the  day's  assails, 

From  the  tempestuous  nightingales. 

And  fills,  and  fails. 

O  gracious  city  well-beloved, 

Italian,  and  a  maiden  crowned, 
Siena,  my  feet  are  no  more  moved 

Toward  thy  strange-shapen  mountain-bound : 
But  my  heart  in  me  turns  and  moves, 
O  lady  loveliest  of  my  loves, 
Toward  thee,  to  lie  before  thy  feet 
And  gaze  from  thy  fair  fountain-seat 
Up  the  sheer  street; 


^iena  121 

And  the  house  midway  hanging  see 
That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily, 
Felt  on  its  floors  her  sweet  feet  move, 
And  the  live  light  of  fiery  love 
Burn  from  her  beautiful  strange  face, 
As  in  the  sanguine  sacred  place 
Where  in  pure  hands  she  took  the  head 
Severed,  and  with  pure  lips  still  red 
Kissed  the  lips  dead. 

For  years  through,  sweetest  of  the  saints. 
In  quiet  without  cease  she  wrought. 

Till  cries  of  men  and  fierce  complaints 

From  outward  moved  her  maiden  thought ; 

And  prayers  she  heard  and  sighs  toward  France, 

"  God,  send  us  back  deliverance. 

Send  back  thy  servant,  lest  we  die  !  " 

With  an  exceeding  bitter  cry 

They  smote  the  sky. 

Then  in  her  sacred  saving  hands 
She  took  the  sorrows  of  the  lands. 
With  maiden  palms  she  lifted  up 
The  sick  time's  blood-embittered  cup, 
And  in  her  virgin  garment  furled 
The  faint  limbs  of  a  wounded  world. 
Clothed  with  calm  love  and  clear  desire, 
She  went  forth  in  her  soul's  attire, 
A  missive  fire. 


1 22      Select  |poem0  of  ^toinbume 

Across  the  might  of  men  that  strove 
It  shone,  and  over  heads  of  kings  ; 

And  molten  in  red  flames  of  love 

Were  swords  and  many  monstrous  things  ; 

And  shields  were  lowered,  and  snapt  were  spears. 

And  sweeter-tuned  the  clamorous  years  ; 

And  faith  came  back,  and  peace,  that  were 

Fled  ;  for  she  bade,  saying,  "  Thou,  God's  heir, 

Hast  thou  no  care  ? 

*'  Lo,  men  lay  waste  thine  heritage 
Still,  and  much  heathen  people  rage 
Against  thee,  and  devise  vain  things. 
What  comfort  in  the  face  of  kings. 
What  counsel  is  there  ?   Turn  thine  eyes 
And  thine  heart  from  them  in  like  wisej 
Turn  thee  unto  thine  holy  place 
To  help  us  that  of  God  for  grace 
Require  thy  face. 

"  For  who  shall  hear  us  if  not  thou 

In  a  strange  land  ?  what  doest  thou  there  ? 

Thy  sheep  are  spoiled,  and  the  ploughers  plough 
Upon  us  ;  why  hast  thou  no  care 

For  all  this,  and  beyond  strange  hills 

Liest  unregardful  what  snow  chills 

Thy  foldless  flock,  or  what  rains  beat  ? 

Lo,  in  thine  ears,  before  thy  feet. 

Thy  lost  sheep  bleat. 


^tena  1 23 

"  And  strange  men  feed  on  faultless  lives, 
And  there  is  blood,  and  men  put  knives, 
Shepherd,  unto  the  young  lamb's  throat ; 
And  one  hath  eaten,  and  one  smote. 
And  one  had  hunger  and  is  fed 
Full  of  the  flesh  of  these,  and  red 
With  blood  of  these  as  who  drinks  wine. 
And  God  knoweth,  who  hath  sent  thee  a  sign, 
If  these  were  thine." 

But  the  Pope's  heart  within  him  burned, 
So  that  he  rose  up,  seeing  the  sign. 

And  came  among  them ;  but  she  turned 
Back  to  her  daily  way  divine. 

And  fed  her  faith  with  silent  things. 

And  lived  her  life  with  curbed  white  wings, 

And  mixed  herself  with  heaven  and  died  : 

And  now  on  the  sheer  city-side 

Smiles  like  a  bride. 

You  see  her  in  the  fresh  clear  gloom. 
Where  walls  shut  out  the  flame  and  bloom 
Of  full-breathed  summer,  and  the  roof 
Keeps  the  keen  ardent  air  aloof 
And  sweet  weight  of  the  violent  sky  : 
There  bodily  beheld  on  high. 
She  seems  as  one  hearing  in  tune 
Heaven  within  heaven,  at  heaven's  full  noon, 
In  sacred  swoon  : 


1 24     Select  J^otma  of  ^iDinbume 

A  solemn  swoon  of  sense  that  aches 
With  imminent  blind  heat  of  heaven. 

While  all  the  wide-eyed  spirit  wakes. 
Vigilant  of  the  supreme  Seven, 

Whose  choral  flames  in  God's  sight  move, 

Made  unendurable  with  love, 

That  without  wind  or  blast  or  breath 

Compels  all  things  through  life  and  death 

Whither  God  saith. 

There  on  the  dim  side-chapel  wall 

Thy  mighty  touch  memorial, 

Bazzi,  raised  up,  for  ages  dead. 

And  fixed  for  us  her  heavenly  head  : 

And,  rent  with  plaited  thorn  and  rod. 

Bared  the  live  likeness  of  her  God 

To  men's  eyes  turning  from  strange  lands. 

Where,  pale  from  thine  immortal  hands, 

Christ  wounded  stands ; 

And  the  blood  blots  his  holy  hair 

And  white  brows  over  hungering  eyes 
That  plead  against  us,  and  the  fair 

Mute  lips  forlorn  of  words  or  sighs 
In  the  great  torment  that  bends  down 
His  bruised  head  with  the  bloomless  crown. 
White  as  the  unfruitful  thorn-flower, 
A  God  beheld  in  dreams  that  were 
Beheld  of  her. 


§)iena  125 

In  vain  on  all  these  sins  and  years 
Falls  the  sad  blood,  fall  the  slow  tears ; 
In  vain  poured  forth  as  watersprings, 
Priests,  on  your  altars,  and  ye,  kings. 
About  your  seats  of  sanguine  gold  ; 
Still  your  God,  spat  upon  and  sold. 
Bleeds  at  your  hands  ;  but  now  is  gone 
All  his  flock  from  him  saving  one  ; 
Judas  alone. 

Surely  your  race  it  was  that  he, 

O  men  signed  backward  with  his  name. 

Beholding  in  Gethsemane 

Bled  the  red  bitter  sweat  of  shame, 

Knowing  how  the  word  of  Christian  should 

Mean  to  men  evil  and  not  good. 

Seem  to  men  shameful  for  your  sake. 

Whose  lips,  for  all  the  prayers  they  make, 

Man's  blood  must  slake. 

But  blood  nor  tears  ye  love  not,  you 
That  my  love  leads  my  longing  to. 
Fair  as  the  world's  old  faith  of  flowers, 
O  golden  goddesses  of  ours  ! 
From  what  Idalian  rose-pleasance 
Hath  Aphrodite  bidden  glance 
The  lovelier  lightnings  of  your  feet  ? 
From  what  sweet  Paphian  sward  or  seat 
Led  you  more  sweet  ? 


1 26     Select  ^poentflf  of  ^toinburne 

O  white  three  sisters,  three  as  one, 

With  flowerlike  arms  for  flowery  bands 

Your  linked  limbs  glitter  like  the  sun, 
And  time  lies  beaten  at  your  hands. 

Time  and  wild  years  and  wars  and  men 

Pass,  and  ye  care  not  whence  or  when ; 

With  calm  lips  over  sweet  for  scorn, 

Ye  watch  night  pass,  O  children  born 

Of  the  old  world  morn. 

Ah,  in  this  strange  and  shrineless  place. 
What  doth  a  goddess,  what  a  Grace, 
Where  no  Greek  worships  her  shrined  limbs 
With  wreaths  and  Cytherean  hymns  ? 
Where  no  lute  makes  luxurious 
The  adoring  airs  in  Amathus, 
Till  the  maid,  knowing  her  mother  near, 
Sobs  with  love,  aching  with  sweet  fear  ? 
What  do  ye  hear  ? 

For  the  outer  land  is  sad,  and  wears 

A  raiment  of  a  flaming  fire  ; 
And  the  fierce  fruitless  mountain  stairs 

Climb,  yet  seem  wroth  and  loth  to  aspire, 
Climb,  and  break,  and  are  broken  down. 
And  through  their  clefts  and  crests  the  town 
Looks  west  and  sees  the  dead  sun  lie. 
In  sanguine  death  that  stains  the  sky 
With  angry  dye. 


^imu  127 

And  from  the  war-worn  wastes  without 

In  twilight,  in  the  time  of  doubt, 

One  sound  comes  of  one  whisper,  where 

Moved  with  low  motions  of  slow  air 

The  great  trees  nigh  the  castle  swing 

In  the  sad  coloured  evening; 

"  Ricorditi  di  me^  che  son 

La  Pia  "  —  that  small  sweet  word  alone 

Is  not  yet  gone. 

"  Ricorditi  di  me'^  —  the  sound 

Sole  out  of  deep  dumb  days  remote 

Across  the  fiery  and  fatal  ground 
Comes  tender  as  a  hurt  bird's  note 

To  where  a  ghost  with  empty  hands, 

A  woe-worn  ghost,  her  palace  stands 

In  the  mid  city,  where  the  strong 

Bells  turn  the  sunset  air  to  song. 

And  the  towers  throng. 

With  other  face,  with  speech  the  same, 

A  mightier  maiden's  likeness  came 

Late  among  mourning  men  that  slept, 

A  sacred  ghost  that  went  and  wept. 

White  as  the  passion-wounded  Lamb, 

Saying,  "  Ah,  remember  me,  that  am 

Italia."  (From  deep  sea  to  sea 

Earth  heard,  earth  knew  her,  that  this  was  she.) 

"  Ricorditi:' 


1 28      Select  ^poentflf  of  ^toinbume 

"  Love  made  me  of  all  things  fairest  thing, 
And  Hate  unmade  me;  this  knows  he 
Who  with  God's  sacerdotal  ring 

Enringed  mine  hand,  espousing  me." 
Yea,  in  thy  myriad-mooded  woe. 
Yea,  Mother,  hast  thou  not  said  so  ? 
Have  not  our  hearts  within  us  stirred, 
O  thou  most  holiest,  at  thy  word  ? 
Have  we  not  heard  ? 

As  this  dead  tragic  land  that  she 
Found  deadly,  such  was  time  to  thee ; 
Years  passed  thee  withering  in  the  red 
Maremma,  years  that  deemed  thee  dead, 
Ages  that  sorrowed  or  that  scorned  ; 
And  all  this  while  though  all  they  mourned 
Thou  sawest  the  end  of  things  unclean. 
And  the  unborn  that  should  see  thee  a  queen. 
Have  we  not  seen  ? 

The  weary  poet,  thy  sad  son, 
Upon  thy  soil,  under  thy  skies. 

Saw  all  Italian  things  save  one  — 
Italia  ;   this  thing  missed  his  eyes  ; 

The  old  mother-might,  the  breast,  the  face 

That  reared,  that  lit  the  Roman  race  ; 

This  not  Leopardi  saw  ;   but  we. 

What  is  it.  Mother,  that  we  see, 

What  if  not  thee  ? 


I 


! 


^ietta  1 29 

Look  thou  from  Siena  southward  home, 

Where  the  priest's  pall  hangs  rent  on  Rome, 

And  through  the  red  rent  swaddling-bands 

Toward  thine  she  strains  her  labouring  hands. 

Look  thou  and  listen,  and  let  be 

All  the  dead  quick,  all  the  bond  free ; 

In  the  blind  eyes  let  there  be  sight 

In  the  eighteen  centuries  of  the  night 

Let  there  be  light. 

Bow  down  the  beauty  of  thine  head, 
Sweet,  and  with  lips  of  living  breath 

Kiss  thy  sons  sleeping,  and  thy  dead. 
That  there  be  no  more  sleep  or  death. 

Give  us  thy  light,  thy  might,  thy  love, 

Whom  thy  face  seen  afar  above 

Drew  to  thy  feet ;  and  when,  being  free, 

Thou  hast  blest  thy  children  born  to  thee. 

Bless  also  me. 

Me  that  when  others  played  or  slept 
Sat  still  under  thy  cross  and  wept ; 
Me  who  so  early  and  unaware 
Felt  fall  on  bent  bared  brows  and  hair 
(Thin  drops  of  the  overflowing  flood  !) 
The  bitter  blessing  of  thy  blood  ; 
The  sacred  shadow  of  thy  pain. 
Thine,  the  true  maiden-mother,  slain 
And  raised  again. 


130     Select  poems  of  ^tDinbume 

Me  consecrated,  if  I  might, 

To  praise  thee,  or  to  love  at  least, 

O  mother  of  all  men's  dear  delight 

Thou  madest  a  choral-souled  boy-priest. 

Before  my  lips  had  leave  to  sing, 

Or  my  hands  hardly  strength  to  cling 

About  the  intolerable  tree 

Whereto  they  had  nailed  my  heart  and  thee 

And  said,  "  Let  be." 

For  to  thee  too  the  high  Fates  gave 
Grace  to  be  sacrificed  and  save, 
That  being  arisen,  in  the  equal  sun, 
God  and  the  People  should  be  one  ; 
By  those  red  roads  thy  footprints  trod, 
Man  more  divine,  more  human  God, 
Saviour ;  that  where  no  light  was  known 
But  darkness,  and  a  daytime  flown, 
Light  should  be  shown. 

Let  there  be  light,  O  Italy  ! 

For  our  feet  falter  in  the  night, 
O  lamp  of  living  years  to  be, 

O  light  of  God,  let  there  be  light  ! 
Fill  with  a  love  keener  than  flame 
Men  sealed  in  spirit  with  thy  name. 
The  cities  and  the  Roman  skies. 
Where  men  with  other  than  man's  eyes 
Saw  thy  sun  rise. 


^jDerintie  ac  Cauaber  131 

For  theirs  thou  wast  and  thine  were  they 
Whose  names  outshine  thy  very  day  ; 
For  they  are  thine  and  theirs  thou  art 
Whose  blood  beats  Hving  in  man's  heart. 
Remembering  ages  fled  and  dead 
Wherein  for  thy  sake  these  men  bled ; 
They  that  saw  Trebia,  they  that  see 
Mentana,  they  in  years  to  be 
That  shall  see  thee. 

For  thine  are  all  of  us,  and  ours 

Thou ;  till  the  seasons  bring  to  birth 

A  perfect  people,  and  all  the  powers 
Be  with  them  that  bear  fruit  on  earth ; 

Till  the  inner  heart  of  man  be  one 

With  freedom,  and  the  sovereign  sun ; 

And  Time,  in  likeness  of  a  guide, 

Lead  the  Republic  as  a  bride 

Up  to  God's  side. 


PERINDE    AC  CADAVER 

In  a  vision  Liberty  stood 

By  the  childless  charm'-stricken  bed 
Where,  barren  of  glory  and  good. 
Knowing  nought  if  she  would  not  or  would, 

England  slept  with  her  dead. 


1 3  2      Select  l^otme  of  S>tDtnljume 

Her  face  that  the  foam  had  whitened, 

Her  hands  that  were  strong  to  strive, 
Her  eyes  whence  battle  had  lightened. 
Over  all  was  a  drawn  shroud  tightened 
To  bind  her  asleep  and  alive. 

She  turned  and  laughed  in  her  dream 

With  grey  lips  arid  and  cold ; 
She  saw  not  the  face  as  a  beam 
Burn  on  her,  but  only  a  gleam 

Through  her  sleep  as  of  new-stamped  gold. 

But  the  goddess,  with  terrible  tears 
In  the  light  of  her  down-drawn  eyes. 

Spake  fire  in  the  dull  sealed  ears ; 
"  Thou,  sick  with  slumbers  and  fears. 
Wilt  thou  sleep  now  indeed  or  arise  ? 

"  With  dreams  and  with  words  and  with  light 

Memories  and  empty  desires 
Thou  hast  wrapped  thyself  round  all  night ; 
Thou  hast  shut  up  thine  heart  from  the  right. 

And  warmed  thee  at  burnt-out  fires. 

"  Yet  once  if  I  smote  at  thy  gate. 

Thy  sons  would  sleep  not,  but  heard  j 
O  thou  that  wast  found  so  great. 
Art  thou  smitten  with  folly  or  fate 

That  thy  sons  have  forgotten  my  word  ? 


:|permDf  ac  CaDatier  133 

**  O  Cromwell's  mother,  O  breast 
That  suckled  Milton  !   thy  name 
That  was  beautiful  then,  that  was  blest, 
Is  it  wholly  discrowned  and  deprest, 
Trodden  under  by  sloth  into  shame  ? 

"  Why  wilt  thou  hate  me  and  die  ? 

For  none  can  hate  me  and  live. 
What  ill  have  I  done  to  thee  ?   why 
Wilt  thou  turn  from  me  fighting,  and  fly, 

Who  would  follow  thy  feet  and  forgive  ? 

*'  Thou  hast  seen  me  stricken,  and  said, 
What  is  it  to  me  ?  I  am  strong : 
Thou  hast  seen  me  bowed  down  on  my  dead 
And  laughed  and  lifted  thine  head, 

And  washed  thine  hands  of  my  wrong. 

"  Thou  hast  put  out  the  soul  of  thy  sight ; 

Thou  hast  sought  to  my  foemen  as  friend, 
To  my  traitors  that  kiss  me  and  smite. 
To  the  kingdoms  and  empires  of  night 
That  begin  with  the  darkness,  and  end. 

"  Turn  thee,  awaken,  arise. 

With  the  light  that  is  risen  on  the  lands. 
With  the  change  of  the  fresh-coloured  skies ; 
Set  thine  eyes  on  mine  eyes. 

Lay  thy  hands  in  my  hands." 


134      Select  l^otmn  of  ^tDinbumr 

She  moved  and  mourned  as  she  heard, 

Sighed  and  shifted  her  place, 
As  the  wells  of  her  slumber  were  stirred 
By  the  music  and  wind  of  the  word, 

Then  turned  and  covered  her  face. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  in  her  sleep, 

"  Is  my  work  not  done  with  and  done  ? 
Is  there  corn  for  my  sickle  to  reap  ? 
And  strange  is  the  pathway,  and  steep, 
And  sharp  overhead  is  the  sun. 

"  I  have  done  thee  service  enough. 
Loved  thee  enough  in  my  day ; 
Now  nor  hatred  nor  love 
Nor  hardly  remembrance  thereof 
Lives  in  me  to  lighten  my  way. 

"  And  is  it  not  well  with  us  here  ? 

Is  change  as  good  as  is  rest  ? 
What  hope  should  move  me,  or  fear. 
That  eye  should  open  or  ear. 

Who  have  long  since  won  what  is  best  ? 

*'  Where  among  us  are  such  things 
As  turn  men's  hearts  into  hell  ? 
Have  we  not  queens  without  stings. 
Scotched  princes,  and  fangless  kings  ? 
Yea,"  she  said,  "  we  are  well. 


:|pennDe  ac  CaDaijer  135 

"  We  have  filed  the  teeth  of  the  snake 
Monarchy,  how  should  it  bite  ? 

Should  the  slippery  slow  thing  wake, 

It  will  not  sting  for  my  sake ; 
Yea,"  she  said,  "  I  do  right." 

So  spake  she,  drunken  with  dreams, 

Mad ;   but  again  in  her  ears 
A  voice  as  of  storm-swelled  streams 
Spake ;  "  No  brave  shame  then  redeems 

Thy  lusts  of  sloth  and  thy  fears  ? 

*'Thy  poor  lie  slain  of  thine  hands, 

Their  starved  limbs  rot  in  thy  sight; 
As  a  shadow  the  ghost  of  thee  stands 
Among  men  living  and  lands. 
And  stirs  not  leftward  or  right. 

'■'*  Freeman  he  is  not,  but  slave. 

Who  stands  not  out  on  my  side  ; 
His  own  hand  hollows  his  grave, 
Nor  strength  is  in  me  to  save 

Where  strength  is  none  to  abide. 

"  Time  shall  tread  on  his  name 

That  was  written  for  honour  of  oldj 

Who  hath  taken  in  change  for  fame 

Dust,  and  silver,  and  shame. 
Ashes,  and  iron,  and  gold." 


136     Select  l^ottM  of  ^toinbume 

THE    PILGRIMS 

Who  is  your  lady  of  love,  O  ye  that  pass 
Singing  ?  and  is  it  for  sorrow  of  that  which  was 
That  ye  sing  sadly,  or  dream  of  what  shall 
be? 
For  gladly  at  once  and  sadly  it  seems  ye 
sing. 

—  Our  lady  of  love  by  you  is  unbeholden  ; 
For  hands  she  hath  none,  nor  eyes,  nor  lips,  nor 

golden 
Treasure  of  hair,  nor  face  nor  form,  but  we 
That  love,  we  know  her  more  fair  than 
anything. 

—  Is  she  a  queen,  having  great  gifts  to  give  ? 

—  Yea,  these ;  that  whoso  hath  seen  her  shall 

not  live 
Except  he  serve  her  sorrowing,  with  strange 
pain, 
Travail    and    bloodshedding    and    bitterer 
tears  ; 
And  when  she  bids  die  he  shall  surely  die. 
And  he  shall  leave  all  things  under  the  sky 
And  go  forth  naked  under  sun  and  rain 

And  work  and  wait  and  watch  out  all  his 
years. 


^\)t  ^^3ilgnm0  137 

—  Hath  she  on  earth  no  place  of  habitation  ? 

—  Age  to  age  calling,  nation  answering  nation, 
Cries  out.   Where  is  she  ?    and  there  is  none 

to  say  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  in  the  spirit  of  men, 
For  if  in  the  inward  soul  she  hath  no  place, 
In  vain  they  cry  unto  her,  seeking  her  face, 
In  vain  their  mouths  make  much  of  her  ;   for 
they 
Cry  with  vain  tongues,  till  the  heart  lives 
again. 

—  O  ye  that  follow,  and  have  ye  no  repentance  ? 
For  on  your  brows  is  written  a  mortal  sentence. 

An  hieroglyph  of  sorrow,  a  fiery  sign, 

That  in  your  lives  ye  shall  not  pause  or  rest, 

Nor  have  the  sure  sweet  common  love,  nor  keep 

Friends  and  safe  days,  nor  joy  of  life  nor  sleep. 

—  These  have  we  not,  who  have  one  thing, 

the  divine 

Face  and  clear  eyes  of  faith  and  fruitful 

breast. 

—  And  ye  shall  die  before  your  thrones  be  won. 

—  Yea,  and  the  changed  world  and  the  liberal  sun 
Shall  move  and  shine  without  us,  and  we  lie 

Dead  ;  but  if  she  too  move  on  earth  and 
live, 


138      Select  ^jDomtsi  of  ^iDtnbume 

But  if  the  old  world  with  all  the  old  irons  rent 
Laugh  and  give  thanks,  shall  we  be  not  content  ? 
Nay,  we  shall  rather  live,  we  shall  not  die. 
Life  being  so  little  and  death  so  good  to 
give. 

—  And  these  men  shall  forget  you.  — Yea,  but 

we 
Shall  be  a  part  of  the  earth  and  the  ancient  sea, 
And  heaven-high  air  august,  and  awful  fire, 
And  all  things  good  ;  and  no  man's  heart 
shall  beat 
But  somewhat  in  it  of  our  blood  once  shed 
Shall  quiver  and  quicken,  as  now  in  us  the  dead 
Blood  of  men  slain  and  the  old  same   life's 
desire 
Plants   in   their  fiery  footprints  our  fresh 
feet. 

—  But  ye  that  might  be  clothed  with  all  things 

pleasant. 
Ye  are  foolish  that  put  off  the  fair  soft  present, 
That  clothe  yourselves  with  the  cold  future 
air ; 
When  mother  and  father  and  tender  sister 
and  brother 
And  the  old  live  love  that  was  shall  be  as  ye, 
Dust,  and  no  fruit  of  loving  life  shall  be. 


tlTJje  pilgrintflf  139 

—  She  shall  be  yet  who  is  more  than  all  these 
were, 
Than  sister  or  wife  or  father  unto  us  or 
mother. 

—  Is  this  worth  life,  is  this,  to  win  for  wages  ? 
Lo,  the  dead  mouths  of  the  awful  grey-grown 

ages, 
The  venerable,  in  the  past  that  is  their  prison. 
In  the    outer  darkness,  in  the  unopening 
grave. 
Laugh,  knowing  how  many  as  ye  now  say  have 

said, 
How  many,  and  all  are  fallen,  are  fallen  and 
dead  : 
Shall  ye  dead  rise,  and  these  dead  have  not 
risen  ? 
—  Not  we  but  she,  who  is  tender  and  swift 
to  save. 

—  Are  ye  not  weary  and  faint  not  by  the  way. 
Seeing  night  by  night  devoured  of  day  by  day. 

Seeing  hour  by  hour  consumed  in  sleepless 
fire? 
Sleepless  :   and  ye  too,  when  shall  ye   too 
sleep  ? 

—  We  are  weary  in  heart  and  head,  in   hands 

and  feet, 


140     Select  |3oemfif  of  ^toinbume 

And  surely  more  than  all  things  sleep  were  sweet. 
Than  all  things  save  the  inexorable  desire 
Which  whoso  knoweth  shall  neither  faint 
nor  weep. 

—  Is  this  so  sweet  that  one  were  fain  to  follow  ? 
Is  this  so  sure  where  all  men's  hopes  are  hollow, 

Even  this  your  dream,  that  by  much  tribula- 
tion 
Ye  shall  make  whole  flawed  hearts,  and 
bowed  necks  straight  ? 

—  Nay  though  our  life  were  blind,  our  death 

were  fruitless, 
Not  therefore  were  the  whole  world's  high  hope 
rootless  ; 
But  man  to  man,  nation  would  turn  to  nation, 
And  the  old  life  live,  and    the    old  great 
word  be  great. 

—  Pass  on  then  and  pass  by  us  and  let  us  be, 
For  what  light  think  ye  after  life  to  see  ? 

And  if  the  world  fare  better  will  ye  know  ? 
And  if  man  triumph  who  shall  seek  you 
and  say  ? 

—  Enough  of  light  is  this  for  one  life's  span. 
That  all  men  born  are  mortal,  but  not  man : 

And  we  men  bring  death  lives  by  night  to  sow, 
That  man  may  reap  and  eat  and  live  by  day. 


^uper  iflumina  llBab^lonts!        141 


SUPER  FLUMINA  BABYLONIS 

By  the  waters  of   Babylon  we   sat  down  and 
wept, 

Remembering  thee, 
That  for  ages  of  agony  hast  endured,  and  slept, 

And  wouldst  not  see. 

By  the    waters    of    Babylon  we  stood  up  and 
sang, 

Considering  thee. 
That  a  blast  of  deliverance  in  the  darkness  rang, 

To  set  thee  free. 

And  with  trumpets  and  thunderings  and  with 
morning  song 
Came  up  the  light ; 
And    thy    spirit    uplifted    thee    to     forget     thy 
wrong 
As  day  doth  night. 

And  thy  sons  were  dejected  not  any  more,  as 
then 
When  thou  wast  shamed; 
When  thy  lovers  went  heavily  without  heart,  as 
men 
Whose  life  was  maimed. 


142      Select  :|poemB;  of  ^tDinbume 

In  the  desolate  distances,  with  a  great  desire, 

For  thy  love's  sake, 
With  our  hearts  going  back  to  thee,  they  were 
filled  with  fire, 

Were  nigh  to  break. 

It  was  said  to  us  :  "  Verily  ye  are  great  of  heart, 

But  ye  shall  bend ; 
Ye  are  bondmen  and  bondwomen,  to  be  scourged 
and  smart. 

To  toil  and  tend." 

And  with  harrows  men  harrowed  us,  and  sub- 
dued with  spears. 
And  crushed  with  shame  ; 
And  the  summer  and  winter  was,  and  the  length 
of  years. 
And  no  change  came. 

By  the  rivers  of  Italy,  by  the  sacred  streams. 

By  town,  by  tower. 
There  was    feasting   with   revelling,  there  was 
sleep  with  dreams. 

Until  thine  hour. 

And  they  slept  and  they  rioted  on  their  rose- 
hung  beds. 
With  mouths  on  flame. 


^uper  iflumina  Babylonia        143 

And  with   love-locks  vine-chapleted,  and  with 
rose-crowned  heads 
And  robes  of  shame. 

And  they  knew  not  their  forefathers,  nor  the 
hills  and  streams 
And  words  of  power, 
Nor  the  gods  that  were  good  to  them,  but  with 
songs  and  dreams 
Filled  up  their  hour. 

By    the    rivers    of   Italy,  by  the    dry  streams' 
beds, 
When  thy  time  came, 
There    was    casting    of    crowns    from    them, 
from  their  young  men's  heads. 
The  crowns  of  shame. 

By  the  horn  of  Eridanus,  by  the  Tiber  mouth, 

As  thy  day  rose. 
They  arose  up  and  girded  them  to  the  north 
and  south. 

By  seas,  by  snows. 

As  a  water  in  January  the  frost  confines. 

Thy  kings  bound  thee ; 
As  a  water  in  April  is,  in  the  new-blown  vines. 

Thy  sons  made  free. 


144      Select  poems  of  ^tomburne 

And  thy  lovers  that  looked   for  thee,  and  that 
mourned  from  far, 

For  thy  sake  dead, 
We  rejoiced  in  the  light  of  thee,  in  the  signal  star 

Above  thine  head. 

In  thy  grief  had  we  followed  thee,  in  thy  pas- 
sion loved, 
Loved  in  thy  loss ; 
In  thy  shame  we  stood  fast  to  thee,  with  thy 
pangs  were  moved, 
Clung  to  thy  cross. 

By  the  hillside  of  Calvary  we  beheld  thy  blood. 

Thy  bloodred  tears. 
As  a  mother's  in  bitterness,  an  unebbing  flood, 

Years  upon  years. 

And  the  north  was  Gethsemane,  without  leaf 
or  bloom, 
A  garden  sealed ; 
And  the  south  was  Aceldama,  for  a  sanguine 
fume 
Hid  all  the  field. 

By  the  stone  of  the  sepulchre  we  returned  to 
weep. 
From  far,  from  prison  ; 


^uper  iFlumina  Bab^lonfe        145 

And   the  guards    by  it    keeping    it  we    beheld 
asleep, 
But  thou  wast  risen. 

And  an  angel's  similitude  by  the  unsealed  grave, 

And  by  the  stone  : 
And  the  voice  was  angelical,  to  whose  words 
God  gave 

Strength  like  his  own. 

*'  Lo,  the  graveclothes  of  Italy  that  are  folded 
up 
In  the  grave's  gloom! 
And  the  guards  as   men  wrought  upon  with  a 
charmed  cup. 
By  the  open  tomb. 

*'  And  her  body  most  beautiful,  and  her  shining 
head, 

These  are  not  here  ; 
For  your  mother,  for  Italy,  is  not  surely  dead  : 

Have  ye  no  fear. 

"  As  of  old  time    she  spake  to    you,  and  you 
hardly  heard, 

Hardly  took  heed, 
So  now  also  she  saith  to  you,  yet  another  word. 

Who  is  risen  indeed. 


146      Select  ^poentflf  of  ^tDinbume 

"  By  my  saying  she  saith  to  you,  in  your  cars  she 
saith, 
Who  hear  these  things, 
Put   no  trust  in  men's  royalties,  nor  in  great 
men's  breath, 
Nor  words  of  kings. 

"  For  the  life  of  them  vanishes  and  is  no  more 
seen, 
Nor  no  more  known  ; 
Nor  shall  any  remember  him  if  a  crown  hath 
been. 
Or  where  a  throne. 

"  Unto  each  man  his  handiwork,  unto  each  his 
crown. 
The  just  Fate  gives  ; 
Whoso  takes  the  world's  life  on  him  and  his 
own  lays  down, 
He,  dying  so,  lives. 

"  Whoso   bears    the    whole    heaviness    of    the 
wronged  world's  weight 
And  puts  it  by. 
It    is  well  with  him  suffering,  though  he  face 
man's  fate  ; 
How  should  he  die  ? 


^uper  iflumina  Babylonia        147 

"  Seeing  death  has  no  part  in  him  any  more,'  no 
power 

Upon  his  head  ; 
He  has  bought  his  eternity  with  a  little  hour, 

And  is  not  dead. 

"  For  an  hour,  if  ye  look  for  him,  he  is  no  more 
found. 
For  one  hour's  space ; 
Then  ye  lift  up  your  eyes  to  him  and  behold 
him  crowned, 
A  deathless  face. 

"  On  the  mountains  of  memory,  by  the  world's 
well-springs, 
In  all  men's  eyes. 
Where  the  light  of  the  life  of  him  is  on  all  past 
things. 
Death  only  dies. 

"  Not  the  light  that  was  quenched  for  us,  nor 
the  deeds  that  were. 
Nor  the  ancient  days. 
Nor  the  sorrows  not   sorrowful,   nor  the  face 
most  fair 
Of  perfect  praise." 

So  the  angel  of  Italy's  resurrection  said, 
So  yet  he  saith  j 


148      Select  Ij^otms  of  $)iDmbume 

So  the  son  of  her  suffering,  that  from  breasts 
nigh  dead 
Drew  life,  not  death. 

That  the  pavement  of  Golgotha  should  be  white 
as  snow, 
Not  red,  but  white  ; 
That  the  waters  of  Babylon  should  no  longer 
flow. 
And  men  see  light. 


MATER   DOLOROSA 

Citoyen,  lui  dit  Enjolras,  ma  mere,  c'est  la  Republique.  —  Let 

Miserable!. 

Who  is  this  that  sits  by  the  way,  by  the  wild 

wayside. 
In  a  rent  stained  raiment,  the  robe  of  a  cast-ofF 

bride. 
In  the  dust,  in  the  rainfall  sitting,  with  soiled 

feet  bare. 
With  the  night  for  a  garment  upon  her,  with 

torn  wet  hair? 
She  is  fairer  of  face  than  the  daughters  of  men, 

and  her  eyes. 
Worn   through  with  her  tears,  are  deep  as  the 

depth  of  skies. 


spacer  SDolorosa  149 

This    is  she   for  whose  sake   being  fallen,   for 

whose  abject  sake, 
Earth  groans  in  the  blackness  of  darkness,  and 

men's  hearts  break. 
This  is  she  for  whose  love,  having  seen  her,  the 

men  that  were 
Poured  life  out  as  water,  and  shed  their  souls 

upon  air. 
This  is  she  for  whose  glory  their  years  were 

counted  as  foam  ; 
Whose   face  was  a  light  upon  Greece,  was  a 

fire  upon  Rome. 

Is  it  now  not  surely  a  vain  thing,  a  foolish  and 
vain, 

To  sit  down  by  her,  mourn  to  her,  serve  her, 
partake  in  the  pain  ? 

She  is  grey  with  the  dust  of  time  on  his  mani- 
fold ways, 

Where  her  faint  feet  stumble  and  falter  through 
year-long  days. 

Shall  she  help  us  at  all,  O  fools,  give  fruit  or 
give  fame. 

Who  herself  is  a  name  despised,  a  rejected  name  ? 

We  have  not  served  her  for  guerdon.  If  any  do  so, 
That  his  mouth  may  be  sweet  with  such  honey, 
we  care  not  to  know. 


1 50      Select  ^pocntsf  of  ^iuinbume 

We  have  drunk  from   a  wine-unsweetened,  a 

perilous  cup, 
A  draught  very  bitter.    The  kings  of  the  earth 

stood  up. 
And  the  rulers  took  counsel  together  to  smite 

her  and  slay ; 
And  the  blood  of  her  wounds  is  given  us  to 

drink  to-day. 

Can  these  bones  live  ?  or  the  leaves  that  are 

dead  leaves  bud  ? 
Or  the  dead  blood  drawn  from  her  veins  be  in 

your  veins  blood  ? 
Will  ye  gather  up  water  again  that  was  drawn 

and  shed  ? 
In  the  blood  is  the  life  of  the  veins,  and  her 

veins  are  dead. 
For  the  lives  that  are  over  are  over,  and  past 

things  past; 
She  had  her  day,  and  it  is  not ;  was  first,  and  is 

last. 

Is   it  nothing  unto  you  then,  all  ye  that  pass 

by, 
If  her  breath  be  left  in  her  lips,  if  she  live  now 

or  die  ? 
Behold  now,  O  people,  and  say  if  she  be  not 

fair. 


^mt  DoloroflO  151 

Whom  your  fathers  followed  to  find  her,  with 

praise  and  prayer, 
And  rejoiced,  having   found   her,  though   roof 

they  had  none  nor  bread  ; 
But  ye  care  not ;  what  is  it  to  you  if  her  day 

be  dead  ? 

It  was  well  with   our  fathers  ;   their  sound  was 

in  all  men's  lands. 
There  was  fire  in  their  hearts,  and  the  hunger 

of  fight  in  their  hands. 
Naked    and    strong    they    went    forth    in    her 

strength  like  flame. 
For  her  love's  and  her  name's  sake  of  old,  her 

republican  name. 
But   their    children,  by   kings   made   quiet,  by 

priests  made  wise. 
Love  better  the  heat  of  their  hearths  than  the 

light  of  her  eyes. 

Are  they  children  of  these  thy  children  indeed, 
who  have  sold, 

O  golden  goddess,  the  light  of  thy  face  for 
gold  ? 

Are  they  sons  indeed  of  the  sons  of  thy  day- 
spring  of  hope. 

Whose  lives  are  in  fief  of  an  emperor,  whose 
souls  of  a  Pope  f 


152     Select  ^poentflf  of  ^toinbume 

Hidethen  thine  head,0  beloved;  thy  time  is  done; 
Thy  kingdom  is  broken  in  heaven,  and  blind  thy 
sun. 

What  sleep  is  upon  you,  to  dream  she  indeed 

shall  rise, 
When  the  hopes  are  dead  in  her  heart  as  the 

tears  in  her  eyes  ? 
If  ye  sing  of  her  dead  vi^ill  she  stir  ?  if  ye  weep 

for  her,  weep  ? 
Come  away  now,  leave  her ;  what  hath  she  to 

do  but  sleep  ? 
But  ye  that  mourn  are  alive,  and  have  years  to 

be  ; 
And  life  is  good,  and  the  world  is  wiser  than 

we. 

Yea,  wise  is  the  world  and  mighty,  with  years 
to  give. 

And  years  to  promise ;  but  how  long  now  shall 
it  live  ? 

And  foolish  and  poor  is  faith,  and  her  ways  are 
bare. 

Till  she  find  the  way  of  the  sun,  and  the  morn- 
ing air. 

In  that  hour  shall  this  dead  face  shine  as  the 
face  of  the  sun. 

And  the  soul  of  man  and  her  soul  and  the 
world's  be  one. 


^acer  tZTriump^ali^  153 


MATER  TRIUMPHALIS 

Mother  of  man's  time-travelling  generations. 
Breath  of  his  nostrils,  heartblood  of  his  heart, 

God  above  all  Gods  worshipped  of  all  nations, 
Light  above  light,  law  beyond  law,  thou  art. 

Thy  face  is  as  a  sword  smiting  in  sunder 

Shadows    and    chains   and   dreams  and   iron 
things ; 

The  sea  is  dumb  before  thy  face,  the  thunder 
Silent,  the  skies  are  narrower  than  thy  wings. 

Angels  and  Gods,  spirit  and  sense,  thou  takest 

In  thy  right  hand  as  drops  of  dust  or  dew  ; 
The    temples    and    the    towers    of    time    thou 
breakest, 
His  thoughts  and  words  and  works,  to  make 
them  new. 

All  we   have    wandered  from  thy   ways,   have 
hidden 
Eyes  from  thy  glory  and  ears  from  calls  they 
heard  ; 
Called  of  thy  trumpets  vainly,  called  and  chidden. 
Scourged  of  thy  speech  and  wounded  of  thy 
word. 


154      Select  ^poemsf  of  l&tDinburne 

We  have  known  thee  and  have  not  knovv^n  thee  j 
stood  beside  thee, 
Felt  thy  lips  breathe,  set  foot  where  thy  feet 
trod, 
Loved  and  renounced  and  worshipped  and  de- 
nied thee. 
As  though  thou  wert  but  as  another  God. 

"  One  hour  for  sleep,"  we  said,  "  and  yet  one 
other  ; 
All  day  we  served  her,  and  who  shall  serve 
by  night  ?  " 
Not  knowing  of  thee,  thy  face  not  knowing,  O 
mother, 
O  light  wherethrough  the  darkness  is  as  light. 

Men  that  forsook  thee  hast  thou  not  forsaken, 
Races  of  men  that  knew  not  hast  thou  known  ; 

Nations  that  slept  thou  hast  doubted  not  to  waken, 
Worshippers  of  strange  Gods  to  make  thine 
own. 

All  old  grey  histories  hiding  thy  clear  features, 

O  secret  spirit  and  sovereign,  all  men's  tales, 
Creeds    woven   of  men   thy   children    and    thy 
creatures. 
They  have  woven  for  vestures  of  thee  and 
for  veils. 


spatrr  tETnumptiaU^  155 

Thine  hands,  without  election  or  exemption, 
Feed   all   men    fainting  from  false  peace  or 
strife, 

O  thou,  the  resurrection  and  redemption, 
The  godhead  and  the  manhood  and  the  life. 

Thy    wings    shadow    the    waters ;     thine    eyes 
lighten 
The  horror  of  the  hollows  of  the  night ; 
The  depths  of  the  earth  and  the  dark  places 
brighten 
Under  thy  feet,  whiter  than  fire  is  white. 

Death    is    subdued   to    thee,  and    hell's    bands 
broken  ; 
Where  thou  art  only  is  heaven  ;  who  hears 
not  thee. 
Time  shall  not  hear  him  ;  when  men's  names  are 
spoken, 
A  nameless  sign  of  death  shall  his  name  be. 

Deathless  shall  be  the  death,  the  name  be  name- 
less ; 
Sterile  of  stars  his  twilight  time  of  breath  ; 
With    fire  of   hell    shall  shame  consume   him 
shameless. 
And  dying,  all  the  night  darken  his  death. 


156     Select  poentfit  of  ^tombume 

The  years  are  as  thy  garments,  the  world's  ages 
As  sandals  bound  and  loosed  from  thy  swift 
feet  j 
Time  serves  before  thee,  as  one  that  hath  for 
wages 
Praise  or  shame  only,  bitter  words  or  sweet. 

Thou  sayest  "  Well  done,"  and  all  a  century 
kindles  j 

Again  thou  sayest  "  Depart  from  sight  of  me," 
And  all  the  light  of  face  of  all  men  dwindles. 

And  the  age  is  as  the  broken  glass  of  thee. 

The  night  is  as  a  seal  set  on  men's  faces, 
On  faces  fallen  of  men  that  take  no  light. 

Nor  give  light  in  the  deeps  of  the  dark  places. 
Blind  things,   incorporate  with   the  body  of 
night. 

Their    souls    are    serpents     winterbound    and 
frozen. 
Their  shame  is  as  a  tame  beast,  at  their  feet 
Couched ;    their  cold  lips  deride  thee  and  thy 
chosen. 
Their  lying  lips  made  grey  with  dust  for  meat. 

Then  when  their  time  is  full  and  days  run  over, 
The  splendour  of  thy  sudden  brow  made  bare 


spacer  tZTriumplialijf  « 5  7 

Darkens  the  morning  ;  thy  bared  hands  uncover 
The  veils  of  light  and  night  and  the  awful 
air. 

And  the  world  naked  as  a  new-born  maiden 
Stands  virginal  and  splendid  as  at  birth, 

With  all  thine  heaven  of  all  its  light  unladen, 
Of  all  its  love  unburdened  all  thine  earth. 

For  the  utter  earth  and  the  utter  air  of  heaven 
And  the  extreme  depth  is  thine  and  the  ex- 
treme height  ; 

Shadows  of  things  and  veils  of  ages  riven 

Are  as  men's  kings  unkingdomed  in  thy  sight. 

Through  the  iron  years,  the  centuries  brazen- 
gated. 
By  the  ages'  barred  impenetrable  doors. 
From    the    evening    to    the  morning  have   we 
waited. 
Should  thy  foot  haply  sound   on   the  awful 
floors. 

The  floors  untrodden  of  the  sun's  feet  glimmer, 
The  star-unstricken  pavements  of  the  night  ; 

Do  the  lights  burn  inside  ?  the  lights  wax  dim- 
mer 
On  festal  faces  withering  out  of  sight. 


158      Select  ]ponn0  of  $>tombume 

The  crowned  heads  lose  the  light  on  them ;  it 
may  be 

Dawn  is  at  hand  to  smite  the  loud  feast  dumb  ; 
To  blind  the  torch-lit  centuries  till  the  day  be, 

The  feasting  kingdoms  till  thy  kingdom  come. 

Shall  it  not  come  ?  deny  they  or  dissemble, 
Is  it  not  even  as  lightning  from  on  high 
Now  ?  and  though  many  a  soul  close  eyes  and 
tremble, 
How  should  they  tremble  at  all  who  love  thee 
as  I? 

I  am  thine  harp  between  thine  hands,  O  mother  ! 

All  my  strong  chords  are  strained  with  love 
of  thee. 
We  grapple  in  love  and  wrestle,  as  each  with  other 

Wrestle  the  wind  and  the  unreluctant  sea. 

I  am  no  courtier  of  thee  sober-suited, 

Who  loves  a  little  for  a  little  pay. 
Me  not  thy  winds  and  storms  nor  thrones  dis-      ^ 
rooted 

Nor  molten  crowns  nor  thine  own  sins  dismay. 

Sinned  hast  thou  sometime,  therefore  art  thou 
sinless ; 
Stained  hast  thou  been,  who  art  therefore  with- 
out  stain ; 


spatcr  t!3^rittmpl)alt0  159 

Even  as  man's  soul  is  kin  to  thee,  but  kinless 
Thou,  in  whose  womb  Time  sows  the  all- 
various  grain. 

I  do  not  bid  thee  spare  me,  O  dreadful  mother ! 

I  pray  thee  that  thou  spare  not,  of  thy  grace. 
How  were  it  with  me  then,  if  ever  another 

Should  come  to  stand  before  thee  in  this  my 
place  ? 

I  am  the  trumpet  at  thy  lips,  thy  clarion 
Full  of  thy  cry,  sonorous  with  thy  breath ; 

The  grave  of  souls  born  worms  and  creeds  grown 
carrion 
Thy  blast  of  judgment  fills  with  fires  of  death. 

Thou  art  the  player  whose  organ-keys  are  thun- 
ders. 

And  I  beneath  thy  foot  the  pedal  prest ; 
Thou  art  the  ray  whereat  the  rent  night  sunders, 

And  I  the  cloudlet  borne  upon  thy  breast. 

I  shall  burn  up  before  thee,  pass  and  perish, 

As  haze  in  sunrise  on  the  red  sea-line ; 
But  thou  from  dawn  to  sunsetting  shalt  cher- 
ish 
The  thoughts  that  led  and  souls  that  lighted 
mine. 


i6o      Select  ^ipoentflf  of  ^iuinbume 

Reared  between  night  and  noon  and  truth  and 
error, 
Each   twilight-travelling  bird   that  trills  and 
screams 
Sickens  at  midday,  nor  can  face  for  terror 
The  imperious  heaven's  inevitable  extremes. 

I  have  no  spirit  of  skill  with  equal  fingers 
At  sign  to  sharpen  or  to  slacken  strings ; 

I  keep  no  time  of  song  with  gold-perched  sing- 
ers 
And  chirp  of  linnets  on  the  wrists  of  kings. 

I  am  thy  storm-thrush  of  the  days  that  darken. 
Thy  petrel  in  the  foam  that  bears  thy  bark 

To   port   through  night   and   tempest ;   if  thou 
hearken. 
My  voice  is  in  thy  heaven  before  the  lark. 

My  song  is  in  the  mist  that  hides  thy  morning, 
My  cry  is  up  before  the  day  for  thee  ; 

I   have   heard   thee   and   beheld  thee  and  give    I 
warning. 
Before  thy  wheels  divide  the  sky  and  sea. 

Birds  shall  wake  with  thee  voiced  and  feathered 
fairer. 
To  see  in  summer  what  I  see  in  spring; 


^ater  tK^riumpljalifl;  i6i 

I  have  eyes  and  heart  to  endure  thee,  O  thunder- 
bearer, 
And  they  shall  be  who  shall  have  tongues  to 
sing. 

I  have  love  at  least,  and  have  not  fear,  and  part 
not 

From  thine  unnavigable  and  wingless  way  ; 
Thou  tarriest,  and  I  have  not  said  thou  art  not, 

Nor  all  thy  night  long  have  denied  thy  day. 

Darkness  to  daylight  shall  lift  up  thy  paean. 
Hill  to  hill  thunder,  vale  cry  back  to  vale, 

With  wind-notes  as  of  eagles  yEschylean, 
And  Sappho  singing  in  the  nightingale. 

Sung  to  by  mighty  sons  of  dawn  and  daughters. 

Of  this  night's  songs  thine  ear  shall  keep  but 

one; 

That  supreme  song  which  shook  the  channelled 

waters. 

And  called  thee  skyward  as  God  calls  the  sun. 

Come,  though  all  heaven  again  be  fire  above  thee ; 

Though  death  before  thee  come  to  clear  thy 
sky  ; 
Let  us  but  see  in  his  thy  face  who  love  thee ; 

Yea,  though  thou  slay  us,  arise  and  let  us  die. 


LYRICS  OF  NATURE  AND 
LIFE 


BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 

*'  We  are  what  suns  and  winds  and  waters  make  us."  —  Landor. 

Sea,  windf  and  sun^  with  light  and  sound  and 
breath 
The  spirit  of  man  fulfilling  —  these  create 
That  joy  wherewith  mans  life  grown  passion- 
ate 

Gains  heart  to  hear  and  sense  to  read  and  faith 

To  know  the  secret  word  our  Mother  saith 
In  silence^  and  to  see^  though  doubt  wax  great^ 
Death  as  the  shadow  cast  by  life  on  fate^ 

Passings  whose  shade  we  call  the  shadow  of  death. 

Brother^  to  whom  our  Mother  as  to  me 
Is  dearer  than  all  dreams  of  days  undone^ 

This  song  I  give  you  of  the  sovereign  three 

That  are  as  life  and  sleep  and  death  are^  one  : 

A  song  the  sea-wind  gave  me  from  the  sea 

Where  naught  of  mans  endures  before  the  sun. 


)1B^  tlie  il5ort^  ^ea  163 

BY  THE  NORTH  SEA 


I 

A  LAND  that  is  lonelier  than  ruin  ; 

A  sea  that  is  stranger  than  death : 
Far  fields  that  a  rose  never  blew  in, 

Wan  waste  where  the  winds  lack  breath  j 
Waste  endless  and  boundless  and  flowerless 

But  of  marsh-blossoms  fruitless  as  free  : 
Where  earth  lies  exhausted,  as  powerless 
To  strive  with  the  sea. 

II 

Far  flickers  the  flight  of  the  swallows, 

Far  flutters  the  weft  of  the  grass 
Spun  dense  over  desolate  hollows 

More  pale  than  the  clouds  as  they  pass  : 
Thick  woven  as  the  weft  of  a  witch  is 

Round  the  heart  of  a  thrall  that  hath  sinned, 
Whose  youth  and  the  wrecks  of  its  riches 
Are  waifs  on  the  wind. 

Ill 

The  pastures  are  herdless  and  sheepless 
No  pasture  or  shelter  for  herds : 


1 64     ^tUct  l^otm$  of  ^toinbume 

The  wind  is  relentless  and  sleepless 
And  restless  and  songless  the  birds  j 

Their  cries  from  afar  fall  breathless, 

Their  wings  are  as  lightnings  that  flee  ; 

For  the  land  has  two  lords  that  are  deathless ; 
Death's  self,  and  the  sea. 

IV 

These  twain,  as  a  king  with  his  fellow, 
Hold  converse  of  desolate  speech  : 

And  her  waters  are  haggard  and  yellow 
And  crass  with  the  scurf  of  the  beach  : 

And  his  garments  are  grey  as  the  hoary 
Wan  sky  where  the  day  lies  dim  : 

And  his  power  is  to  her,  and  his  glory, 
As  hers  unto  him. 


In  the  pride  of  his  power  she  rejoices. 
In  her  glory  he  glows  and  is  glad  : 
In  her  darkness  the  sound  of  his  voice  is. 
With  his  breath  she  dilates  and  is  mad : 
"  If  thou  slay  me,  O  death,  and  outlive  me. 
Yet  thy  love  hath  fulfilled  me  of  thee." 
"  Shall  I  give  thee  not  back  if  thou  give  me, 
O  sister,  O  sea  ?  " 


JB^  tlje  jliort^  ^ea  165 

VI 

And  year  upon  year  dawns  living, 

And  age  upon  age  drops  dead  : 
And  his  hand  is  not  weary  of  giving, 

And  the  thirst  of  her  heart  is  not  fed : 
And  the  hunger  that  moans  in  her  passion, 

And  the  rage  in  her  hunger  that  roars. 
As  a  wolf's  that  the  winter  lays  lash  on, 
Still  calls  and  implores. 

VII 

Her  walls  have  no  granite  for  girder. 
No  fortalice  fronting  her  stands  : 

But  reefs  the  bloodguiltiest  of  murder 
Are  less  than  the  banks  of  her  sands : 

These  number  their  slain  by  the  thousand ; 
For  the  ship  hath  no  surety  to  be, 

When  the  bank  is  abreast  of  her  bows  and 
Aflush  with  the  sea. 

VIII 

No  surety  to  stand,  and  no  shelter 
To  dawn  out  of  darkness  but  one. 

Out  of  waters  that  hurtle  and  welter 
No  succour  to  dawn  with  the  sun. 

But  a  rest  from  the  wind  as  it  passes, 

Where,  hardly  redeemed  from  the  waves, 

Lie  thick  as  the  blades  of  the  grasses 
The  dead  in  their  graves. 


1 66      Select  ^pocmsf  of  ^toinbume 

IX 

A  multitude  noteless  of  numbers, 
As  wild  weeds  cast  on  an  heap  : 

And  sounder  than  sleep  are  their  slumbers. 
And  softer  than  song  is  their  sleep  ; 

And  sweeter  than  all  things  and  stranger 
The  sense,  if  perchance  it  may  be, 

That  the  wind  is  divested  of  danger 
And  scatheless  the  sea. 

X 

That  the  roar  of  the  banks  they  breasted 
Is  hurtless  as  bellowing  of  herds, 

And  the  strength  of  his  wings  that  invested 
The  wind,  as  the  strength  of  a  bird's ; 

As  the  sea-mew's  might  or  the  swallow's 
That  cry  to  him  back  if  he  cries. 

As  over  the  graves  and  their  hollows 
Days  darken  and  rise. 

XI 

As  the  souls  of  the  dead  men  disburdened 
And  clean  of  the  sins  that  they  sinned. 

With  a  lovelier  than  man's  life  guerdoned 
And  delight  as  a  wave's  in  the  wind, 

And  delight  as  the  wind's  in  the  billow. 
Birds  pass,  and  deride  with  their  glee 

The  flesh  that  has  dust  for  its  pillow 
As  wrecks  have  the  sea. 


315^  t^e  iliort^  ^ea  167 

XII 

When  the  days  of  the  sun  wax  dimmer, 
Wings  flash  through  the  dusk  Hke  beams ; 

As  the  clouds  in  the  lit  sky  gHmmer, 
The  bird  in  the  graveyard  gleams  ; 

As  the  cloud  at  its  wing's  edge  whitens 
When  the  clarions  of  sunrise  are  heard, 

The  graves  that  the  bird's  note  brightens 
Grow  bright  for  the  bird. 

XIII 

As  the  waves  of  the  numberless  waters 
That  the  wind  cannot  number  who  guides 

Are  the  sons  of  the  shore  and  the  daughters 
Here  lulled  by  the  chime  of  the  tides  : 

And  here  in  the  press  of  them  standing 
We  know  not  if  these  or  if  we 

Live  truliest,  or  anchored  to  landing 
Or  drifted  to  sea. 

XIV 

In  the  valley  he  named  of  decision 
No  denser  were  multitudes  met 

When  the  soul  of  the  seer  in  her  vision 
Saw  nations  for  doom  of  them  set ; 

Saw  darkness  in  dawn,  and  the  splendour 
Of  judgment,  the  sword  and  the  rod; 

But  the  doom  here  of  death  is  more  tender 
And  gentler  the  god. 


1 68      Select  ipoems  of  ^tomburne 

XV 

And  gentler  the  wind  from  the  dreary 
Sea-banks  by  the  waves  overlapped, 
Being  weary,  speaks  peace  to  the  weary 
From  slopes  that  the  tide-stream  hath 
sapped ; 
And  sweeter  than  all  that  we  call  so 
The  seal  of  their  slumber  shall  be 
Till  the  graves  that  embosom  them  also 
Be  sapped  of  the  sea. 


II 


P'or  the  heart  of  the  waters  is  cruel, 
And  the  kisses  are  dire  of  their  lips, 

And  their  waves  are  as  fire  is  to  fuel 
To  the  strength  of  the  sea-faring  ships. 

Though  the  sea's  eye  gleam  as  a  jewel 
To  the  sun's  eye  back  as  he  dips. 

II 

Though  the  sun's  eye  flash  to  the  sea's 
Live  light  of  delight  and  of  laughter. 

And  her  lips  breathe  back  to  the  breeze 
The  kiss  that  the  wind's  lips  waft  her 

From  the  sun  that  subsides,  and  sees 
No  gleam  of  the  storm's  dawn  after. 


315^  t^e  jjJortl)  ^ea  169 

III 

And  the  wastes  of  the  wild  sea-marches 
Where  the  borderers  are  matched  in  their 
might  — 

Bleak  fens  that  the  sun's  weight  parches, 
Dense  waves  that  reject  his  light  — 

Change  under  the  change-coloured  arches 
Of  changeless  morning  and  night. 

IV 

The  waves  are  as  ranks  enrolled 
Too  close  for  the  storm  to  sever : 

The  fens  lie  naked  and  cold, 

But  their  heart  fails  utterly  never: 

The  lists  are  set  from  of  old, 

And  the  warfare  endureth  for  ever. 


Ill 


Miles,  and  miles,  and  miles  of  desolation  ! 

Leagues  on  leagues  on  leagues  without  a  change ! 
Sign  or  token  of  some  eldest  nation 

Here  would   make  the  strange   land   not  so 
strange. 
Time-forgotten,  yea  since  time's  creation. 

Seem  these  borders  where  the  sea-birds  range. 


1 70      Select  |Doem0  of  ^iuinburne 
II 

Slowly,  gladly,  full  of  peace  and  wonder 
Grows  his  heart  who  journeys  here  alone. 

Earth  and  all  its  thoughts  of  earth  sink  under 
Deep  as  deep  in  water  sinks  a  stone. 

Hardly  knows  it  if  the  rollers  thunder. 
Hardly  whence  the  lonely  wind  is  blown. 

Ill 

Tall  the  plumage  of  the  rush-flower  tosses, 
Sharp  and  soft  in  many  a  curve  and  line 

Gleam  and  glow  the  sea-coloured  marsh-mosses. 
Salt  and  splendid  from  the  circling  brine. 

Streak  on  streak  of  glimmering  seashine  crosses 
All  the  land  sea-saturate  as  with  wine. 

IV 

Far,  and  far  between,  in  divers  orders. 

Clear  grey  steeples  cleave  the  low  grey  sky , 

Fast  and  firm  as  time-unshaken  warders. 

Hearts   made  sure   by  faith,  by    hope    made 
high. 

These  alone  in  all  the  wild  sea-borders 
Fear  no  blast  of  days  and  nights  that  die. 


All  the  land  is  like  as  one  man's  face  is, 
Pale  and  troubled  still  with  change  of  cares. 


115^  t\)t  iliortl)  ^ea  171 

Doubt  and  death  pervade  her  clouded  spaces : 
Strength    and    length  of  life  and   peace    are 
theirs ; 

Theirs  alone  amid  these  weary  places, 

Seeing  not  how  the  wild  world  frets  and  fares. 

VI 

Firm  and  fast  where  all  is  cloud  that  changes 
Cloud-clogged    sunlight,    cloud    by    sunlight 
thinned, 
Stern  and  sweet,  above  the  sand-hill  ranges 
Watch  the  towers  and  tombs  of  men  that 
sinned 
Once,  now  calm  as  earth  whose  only  change  is 
Wind,  and  light,  and  wind,  and   cloud,  and 
wind. 

VII 

Out  and  in  and  out  the  sharp  straits  wander. 
In  and  out  and  in  the  wild  way  strives. 

Starred  and  paved   and  lined   with  flowers  that 
squander 
Gold  as  golden  as  the  gold  of  hives, 

Salt  and  moist  and  multiform  :  but  yonder. 
See,  what  sign  of  life  or  death  survives  ? 

VIII 

Seen  then  only  when  the  songs  of  olden 

Harps  were  young  whose  echoes  yet  endure, 


172      Select  ipocnts:  of  ^tombume 

Hymned  of  Homer  when  his  years  were  golden. 
Known  of  only  when  the  world  was  pure, 

Here  is  Hades,  manifest,  beholden. 
Surely,  surely  here,  if  aught  be  sure  ! 

IX 

Where   the  border-line  was  crossed,  that,  sun- 
dering 
Death  from  life,  keeps  weariness  from  rest. 
None  can  tell,  who  fares  here  forward  wonder- 
ing; 
None  may  doubt  but  here  might  end  his  quest. 
Here  life's  lightning  joys  and  woes  once  thun- 
dering 
Sea-like   round    him   cease    like  storm    sup- 
pressed. 


Here  the  wise  wave-wandering  steadfast-hearted 
Guest  of  many  a  lord  of  many  a  land 

Saw  the  shape  or  shade  of  years  departed. 
Saw  the  semblance  risen  and  hard  at  hand, 

Saw  the  mother  long  from  love's  reach  parted, 
Anticleia,  like  a  statue  stand. 

XI 

Statue  ?  nay,  nor  tissued  image  woven 
Fair  on  hangings  in  his  father's  hall ; 


215^  tlje  #ortlj  ^ea  173 

Nay,  too  fast  her  faith  of  heart  was  proven, 
Far  too  firm  her  loveliest  love  of  all ; 

Love  wherethrough  the  loving  heart  was  cloven, 
Love  that  hears  not  when  the  loud  Fates  call. 

XII 

Love  that  lives  and  stands  up  re-created 

Then  when  life  has  ebbed  and  anguish  fled; 

Love  more  strong  than  death  or  all  things  fated, 
Child's  and  mother's,  lit  by  love  and  led ; 

Love  that  found  what  life  so  long  awaited 
Here,  when  life  came  down  among  the  dead. 

XIII 

Here,  where  never  came  alive  another. 
Came  her  son  across  the  sundering  tide 

Crossed  before  by  many  a  warrior  brother 
Once  that  warred  on  Ilion  at  his  side ; 

Here  spread  forth  vain  hands  to  clasp  the  mother 
Dead,  that  sorrowing  for  his  love's  sake  died. 

XIV 

Parted,  though  by  narrowest  of  divisions. 
Clasp  he  might  not,  only  might  implore. 

Sundered  yet  by  bitterest  of  derisions. 

Son,  and  mother  from  the  son  she  bore  — 

Here  ?    But  all  dispeopled  here  of  visions 
Lies,  forlorn  of  shadows  even,  the  shore. 


1 74      Select  poentflt  of  ^toinbume 

XV 

All  too  sweet  such  men's  Hellenic  speech  is, 
All  too  fain  they  lived  of  light  to  see, 

Once  to  see  the  darkness  of  these  beaches, 
Once  to  sing  this  Hades  found  of  me 

Ghostless,  all  its  gulfs  and  creeks  and  reaches, 
Sky,  and  shore,  and  cloud,  and  waste,  and  sea. 


IV 


But  aloft  and  afront  of  me  faring 
Far  forward  as  folk  in  a  dream 

That  strive,  between  doubting  and  daring, 
Right  on  till  the  goal  for  them  gleam. 

Full  forth  till  their  goal  on  them  lighten, 
The  harbour  where  fain  they  would  be, 

What  headlands  there  darken  and  brighten  ? 
What  change  in  the  sea  ? 

II 

What  houses  and  woodlands  that  nestle 

Safe  inland  to  lee  of  the  hill 
As  it  slopes  from  the  headlands  that  wrestle 

And  succumb  to  the  strong  sea's  will  ? 
Truce  is  not,  nor  respite,  nor  pity. 

For  the  battle  is  waged  not  of  hands 


515^  t\)t  j^ortl)  ^ea  175 

Where  over  the  grave  of  a  city 
The  ghost  of  it  stands. 

Ill 

Where  the  wings  of  the  sea-wind  slacken, 
Green  lawns  to  the  landward  thrive, 

Fields  brighten  and  pine-woods  blacken, 
And  the  heat  in  their  heart  is  alive ; 

They  blossom  and  warble  and  murmur, 
For  the  sense  of  their  spirit  is  free: 

But  harder  to  shoreward  and  firmer 
The  grasp  of  the  sea. 

IV 

Like  ashes  the  low  cliffs  crumble. 
The  banks  drop  down  into  dust. 

The  heights  of  the  hills  are  made  humble, 
As  a  reed's  is  the  strength  of  their  trust : 

As  a  city's  that  armies  environ, 

The  strength  of  their  stay  is  of  sand  : 

But  the  grasp  of  the  sea  is  as  iron. 
Laid  hard  on  the  land. 

V 

A  land  that  is  thirstier  than  ruin  : 
A  sea  that  is  hungrier  than  death  ; 

Heaped  hills  that  a  tree  never  grew  in  ; 
Wide  sands  where  the  wave  draws  breath ; 


1 76      Select  ponn0  of  ^toinbume 

All  solace  is  here  for  the  spirit 

That  ever  for  ever  may  be 
For  the  soul  of  thy  son  to  inherit 
My  mother,  my  sea. 

VI 

O  delight  of  the  headlands  and  beaches  ! 

O  desire  of  the  wind  on  the  wold, 
More  glad  than  a  man's  when  it  reaches 

That  end  which  it  sought  from  of  old : 
And  the  palm  of  possession  is  dreary 

To  the  sense  that  in  search  of  it  sinned ; 
But  nor  satisfied  ever  nor  weary 
Is  ever  the  wind. 

VII 

The  delight  that  he  takes  but  in  living 
Is  more  than  of  all  things  that  live: 

For  the  world  that  has  all  things  for  giving 
Has  nothing  so  goodly  to  give : 

But  more  than  delight  his  desire  is, 

For  the  goal  where  his  pinions  would  be 

Is  immortal  as  air  or  as  fire  is. 
Immense  as  the  sea. 

VIII 

Though  hence  come  the  moan  that  he  borrows 
From  darkness  and  depth  of  the  night, 


)15^  t\)t  ^on\)  ^ea  177 

Though  hence  be  the  spring  of  his  sorrows, 
Hence  too  is  the  joy  of  his  might ; 

The  delight  that  his  doom  is  for  ever 
To  seek  and  desire  and  rejoice, 

And  the  sense  that  eternity  never 
Shall  silence  his  voice. 


IX 

That  satiety  never  may  stifle 
Nor  weariness  ever  estrange 

Nor  time  be  so  strong  as  to  rifle 

Nor  change  be  so  great  as  to  change 

His  gift  that  renews  in  the  giving, 
The  joy  that  exalts  him  to  be 

Alone  of  all  elements  living 
The  lord  of  the  sea. 


What  is  fire,  that  its  flame  should  consume  her? 

More  fierce  than  all  fires  are  her  waves : 
What  is  earth,  that  its  gulfs  should  entomb  her? 

More  deep  are  her  own  than  their  graves. 
Life  shrinks  from  his  pinions  that  cover 

The  darkness  by  thunders  bedinned  : 
But  she  knows  him,  her  lord  and  her  lover 
The  godhead  of  wind. 


1 78     Select  poem0  of  ^toinbume 

XI 

For  a  season  his  wings  are  about  her, 
His  breath  on  her  lips  for  a  space ; 
Such  rapture  he  wins  not  without  her 
In  the  width  of  his  worldwide  race. 
Though  the  forests  bow  down,  and  the  moun- 
tains 
Wax  dark,  and  the  tribes  of  them  flee. 
His  delight  is  more  deep  in  the  fountains 
And  springs  of  the  sea. 

XII 

There  are  those  too  of  mortals  that  love  him 
There  are  souls  that  desire  and  require. 

Be  the  glories  of  midnight  above  him 
Or  beneath  him  the  daysprings  of  fire : 

And  their  hearts  are  as  harps  that  approve  him 
And  praise  him  as  chords  of  a  lyre 

That  were  fain  with  their  music  to  move  him 
To  meet  their  desire 

XIII 

To  descend  through  the  darkness  to  grace  them, 
Till  darkness  were  lovelier  than  light  : 

To  encompass  and  grasp  and  embrace  them. 
Till  their  weakness  were  one  with  his  might : 

With  the  strength  of  his  wings  to  caress  them, 
With  the  blast  of  his  breath  to  set  free  j 


315^  t^e  ijiort^  ^ea  179 

With  the  mouths  of  his  thunders  to  bless  them 
For  sons  of  the  sea. 

XIV 

For  these  have  the  toil  and  the  guerdon 
That  the  wind  has  eternally  :  these 

Have  part  in  the  boon  and  the  burden 
Of  the  sleepless  unsatisfied  breeze, 

That  finds  not,  but  seeking  rejoices 

That  possession  can  vi^ork  him  no  wrong : 

And  the  voice  at  the  heart  of  their  voice  is 
The  sense  of  his  song. 

XV 

For  the  wind's  is  their  doom  and  their  blessing; 

To  desire,  and  have  always  above 
A  possession  beyond  their  possessing, 

A  love  beyond  reach  of  their  love. 
Green  earth  has  her  sons  and  her  daughters, 

And  these  have  their  guerdons  ;  but  we 
Are  the  wind's  and  the  sun's  and  the  water's, 
Elect  of  the  sea. 

V 

I 

For  the  sea  too  seeks  and  rejoices. 
Gains  and  loses  and  gains, 


8o      Select  poem0  of  ^tuinburne 

And  the  joy  of  her  heart's  own  choice  is 
As  ours,  and  as  ours  are  her  pains  : 

As  the  thoughts  of  our  hearts  are  her  voices, 
And  as  hers  is  the  pulse  of  our  veins. 

II 

Her  fields  that  know  not  of  dearth 
Nor  lie  for  their  fruit's  sake  fallow 

Laugh  large  in  the  depth  of  their  mirth  : 
But  inshore  here  in  the  shallow, 

Embroiled  with  encumbrance  of  earth, 
Their  skirts  are  turbid  and  yellow. 

Ill 

The  grime  of  her  greed  is  upon  her, 
The  sign  of  her  deed  is  her  soil ; 

As  the  earth's  is  her  own  dishonour, 
And  corruption  the  crown  of  her  toil : 

She  hath  spoiled  and  devoured,  and  her  honour 
Is  this,  to  be  shamed  by  her  spoil. 

IV 

But  afar  where  pollution  is  none, 
Nor  ensign  of  strife  nor  endeavour, 

Where  her  heart  and  the  sun's  are  one. 
And  the  soil  of  her  sin  comes  never. 

She  is  pure  as  the  wind  and  the  sun. 
And  her  sweetness  endureth  for  ever. 


n  t^t  iliortl)  ^ca  i8i 

VI 


Death,  and  change,  and  darkness  everlasting, 
Deaf,  that  hears  not  what  the  daystar  saith. 

Blind,  past  all  remembrance  and  forecasting. 
Dead,  past  memory  that  it  once  drew  breath ; 

These,  above  the  washing  tides  and  wasting. 
Reign,  and  rule  this  land  of  utter  death. 

II 

Change  of  change,  darkness  of  darkness,  hidden. 

Very  death  of  very  death,  begun 
When  none  knows  —  the  knowledge  is  forbid- 
den — 
Self-begotten,  self-proceeding,  one. 
Born,  not  made  —  abhorred,  unchained,  unchid- 
den. 
Night  stands  here  defiant  of  the  sun. 

Ill 

Change  of  change,  and  death  of  death  begotten. 
Darkness  born  of  darkness,  one  and  three. 

Ghostly  godhead  of  a  world  forgotten. 

Crowned  with  heaven,  enthroned  on  land  and 
sea, 

Here,  where  earth  with  dead  men's  bones  is  rotten, 
God  of  Time,  thy  likeness  worships  thee. 


1 8  2     ^rUct  ;|poem0  of  ^tDinbumr 

IV 

Lo,  thy  likeness  of  thy  desolation, 

Shape  and  figure  of  thy  might,  O  Lord, 

Formless  form,  incarnate  miscreation, 
Served  of  all  things  living  and  abhorred; 

Earth  herself  is  here  thine  incarnation. 
Time,  of  all  things  born  on  earth  adored. 

V 

All  that  worship  thee  are  fearful  of  thee ; 

No  man  may  not  worship  thee  for  fear : 
Prayers  nor  curses  prove  not  nor  disprove  thee, 

Move  nor  change  thee  with  our  change  of 
cheer : 
All  at  last,  though  all  abhorred  thee,  love  thee, 

God,  the  sceptre  of  whose  throne  is  here. 

VI 

Here  thy  throne  and  sceptre  of  thy  station. 
Here  the  palace  paven  for  thy  feet ; 

Here  thy  sign  from  nation  unto  nation 

Passed  as  watchword  for  thy  guards  to  greet. 

Guards  that  go  before  thine  exaltation. 
Ages,  clothed  with  bitter  years  and  sweet. 

VII 

Here,  where  sharp  the  sea-bird  shrills  his  ditty, 
Flickering  flame-wise  through  the  clear  live 
calm. 


315^  tlie  iliort^  ^ea  183 

Rose  triumphal,  crowning  all  a  city, 

Roofs  exalted  once  with  prayer  and  psalm, 

Built  of  holy  hands  for  holy  pity, 

Frank  and  fruitful  as  a  sheltering  palm. 

VIII 

Church  and  hospice  wrought  in   faultless  fash- 
ion. 
Hall  and  chancel  bounteous  and  sublime, 
Wide  and  sweet  and  glorious  as  compassion. 

Filled  and  thrilled  with  force  of  choral  chime, 
Filled  with    spirit  of   prayer  and   thrilled  with 
passion, 
Hailed  a  God  more  merciful  than  Time. 

IX 

Ah,  less  mighty,  less  than  Time  prevailing. 

Shrunk,  expelled,  made  nothing  at  his  nod. 
Less  than  clouds  across  the  sea-line  sailing. 

Lies  he,  stricken  by  his  master's  rod. 
"  Where  is  man  ?  "   the  cloister  murmurs  wail- 
ing; 
Back  the  mute  shrine  thunders  —  "  Where  is 
God  ?  " 

X 

Here  is  all  the  end  of  all  his  glory  — 
Dust,  and  grass,  and  barren  silent  stones. 


1 84     Select  ^ponnfif  of  ^toinburne 

Dead,  like  him,  one  hollow  tower  and  hoary 
Naked  in  the  sea-wind  stands  and  moans. 

Filled  and  thrilled  with  its  perpetual  story  : 
Here,  where  earth  is  dense  with  dead  men'* 
bones. 

XI 

Low  and  loud  and  long,  a  voice  for  ever, 
Sounds  the  wind's  clear  story  like  a  song. 

Tomb  from  tomb  the  waves  devouring  sever, 
Dust  from  dust  as  years  relapse  along ; 

Graves  where  men  made  sure  to  rest,  and  never 
Lie  dismantled  by  the  season's  wrong. 

XII 

Now  displaced,  devoured  and  desecrated. 
Now  by  Time's  hands  darkly  disinterred. 

These  poor  dead  that  sleeping  here  awaited 
Long  the  archangel's  re-creating  word. 

Closed  about  with  roofs  and  walls  high-gated 
Till  the  blast  of  judgment  should  be  heard, 

XIII 

Naked,  shamed,  cast  out  of  consecration. 
Corpse  and  coffin,  yea  the  very  graves. 

Scoffed  at,  scattered,  shaken  from  their  station, 
Spurned  and  scourged  of  wind  and  sea  like 
slaves, 


115^  tfte  i^ortt)  ^ra  185 

Desolate  beyond  man's  desolation, 

Shrink  and  sink  into  the  waste  of  waves. 

XIV 

Tombs,  with  bare  white  piteous  bones  protruded, 
Shroudless,  down  the  loose  collapsing  banks, 

Crumble,  from  their  constant  place  detruded. 
That  the  sea  devours  and  gives  not  thanks. 

Graves  where    hope    and    prayer    and    sorrow 
brooded 
Gape  and  slide  and  perish,  ranks  on  ranks. 

XV 

Rows  on  rows  and  line  by  line  they  crumble. 
They  that  thought  for  all  time  through  to  be. 

Scarce  a  stone  whereon  a  child  might  stumble 
Breaks  the  grim  field  paced  alone  of  me. 

Earth,  and  man,  and  all  their  gods  wax  humble 
Here,  where  Time  brings  pasture  to  the  sea. 


VII 

I 

But  afar  on  the  headland  exalted. 
But  beyond  in  the  curl  of  the  bay. 

From  the  depth  of  his  dome  deep-vaulted 
Our  father  is  lord  of  the  day. 


1 86     Select  ^jDoemg  of  ^toinburne 

Our  father  and  lord  that  we  follow, 

For  deathless  and  ageless  is  he ; 
And  his  robe  is  the  whole  sky's  hollow. 
His  sandal  the  sea. 

II 

Where  the  horn  of  the  headland  is  sharper. 
And  her  green  floor  glitters  with  fire, 

The  sea  has  the  sun  for  a  harper, 
The  sun  has  the  sea  for  a  lyre. 

The  waves  are  a  pavement  of  amber. 
By  the  feet  of  the  sea-winds  trod 

To  receive  in  a  god's  presence-chamber 
Our  father,  the  God 

III 

Time,  haggard  and  changeful  and  hoary. 
Is  master  and  God  of  the  land : 

But  the  air  is  fulfilled  of  the  glory 

That  is  shed  from  our  lord's  right  hand. 

O  father  of  all  of  us  ever, 
All  glory  be  only  to  thee 

From  heaven,  that  is  void  of  thee  never. 
And  earth,  and  the  sea. 

IV 

O  Sun,  whereof  all  is  beholden. 

Behold  now  the  shadow  of  this  death. 


n  tljr  iliortl)  ^ea  187 

This  place  of  the  sepulchres,  olden 
And  emptied  and  vain  as  a  breath. 

The  bloom  of  the  bountiful  heather 
Laughs  broadly  beyond  in  thy  light 

As  dawn,  with  her  glories  to  gather, 
At  darkness  and  night. 


Though  the  Gods  of  the  night  lie  rotten 
And  their  honour  be  taken  away 

And  the  noise  of  their  names  forgotten, 
Thou,  Lord,  art  God  of  the  day. 

Thou  art  father  and  saviour  and  spirit, 
O  Sun,  of  the  soul  that  is  free 

And  hath  grace  of  thy  grace  to  inherit 
Thine  earth  and  thy  sea. 

VI 

The  hills  and  the  sands  and  the  beaches, 

The  waters  adrift  and  afar. 
The  banks  and  the  creeks  and  the  reaches. 

How  glad  of  thee  all  these  are  ! 
The  flowers,  overflowing,  overcrowded. 

Are  drunk  with  the  mad  wind's  mirth  : 
The  delight  of  thy  coming  unclouded 
Makes  music  of  earth. 


1 88     Select  poems!  of  ^toinbumr 

VII 

I,  last  least  voice  of  her  voices, 

Give  thanks  that  were  mute  in  me  long 

To  the  soul  in  my  soul  that  rejoices 
For  the  song  that  is  over  my  song. 

Time  gives  what  he  gains  for  the  giving 
Or  takes  for  his  tribute  of  me  ; 

My  dreams  to  the  wind  everliving, 
My  song  to  the  sea. 

IN  GUERNSEY 
I 

The  heavenly  bay,  ringed  round  with  cliffs  and 

moors. 
Storm-stained  ravines,  and  crags  that  lawns  inlay, 
Soothes  as  with  love  the  rocks  whose  guard  se- 
cures 

The  heavenly  bay. 

O  frLend,  shall  time  take  ever  this  away. 
This  blessing  given  of  beauty  that  endures. 
This  glory  shown  us,  not  to  pass  but  stay  ? 

Though   sight    be  changed    for    memory,  love 

ensures 
What  memory,  changed  by  love  to  sight,  would 

say  — 


31n  ^ufrnsfe^  1 89 

The  word  that  seals  for  ever  mine  and  yours 
The  heavenly  bay. 

II 

My  mother  sea,  my  fostress,  what  new  strand, 
What  new  delight  of  waters,  may  this  be, 
The    fairest    found   since    time's    first    breezes 
fanned 

My  mother  sea  ? 

Once  more  I  give  me  body  and  soul  to  thee, 
Who  hast  my  soul  for  ever :  cliff  and  sand 
Recede,  and  heart  to  heart  once  more  are  we. 

My  heart  springs  first  and  plunges,  ere  my  hand 
Strike  out  from  shore  :   more  close  it  brings  to 

me. 
More  near  and  dear  than  seems  my  fatherland, 
My  mother  sea. 

Ill 

Across  and  along,  as  the  bay's  breadth  opens,  and 

o'er  us 
Wild  autumn  exults  in  the  wind,  swift   rapture 

and  strong 
Impels  us,  and  broader  the  wide  waves  brighten 

before  us 

Across  and  along. 


190     Select  :|poem0  of  ^tomburnc 

The  whole  world's  heart  is  uplifted,  and  knows 

not  wrong ; 
The  whole  world's  life  is  a  chant  to  the  sea-tide's 

chorus ; 
Are  we  not  as  waves  of  the  water,  as  notes  of 

the  song  ? 

Like  children  unworn  of  the  passions  and  toils 

that  wore  us. 
We  breast  for  a  season  the  breadth  of  the  seas 

that  throng. 
Rejoicing  as  they,  to  be  borne  as  of  old  they 

bore  us 

Across  and  along. 

IV 

On  Dante's  track  by  some  funereal  spell 
Drawn  down  through  desperate  ways  that  lead 

not  back 
We  seem  to  move,  bound  forth  past  flood  and 

fell 

On  Dante's  track. 

The  grey  path  ends  i  the  gaunt  rocks  gape :  the 

black 
Deep  hollow  tortuous  night,  a  soundless  shell. 
Glares    darkness  :    are  the  fires  of  old  grown 

slack  ? 


3(ln  ^iueritfife^  191 

Nay,  then,  what  flames  are  these  that  leap  and 

swell 
As  't  were  to  show,  where  earth's  foundations 

crack. 
The  secrets  of  the  sepulchres  of  hell 
On  Dante's  track  ? 


By   mere   men's  hands  the   flame   was   lit,  we 

know. 
From    heaps    of   dry   waste    whin    and    casual 

brands : 
Yet,  knowing,  we  scarce  believe  it  kindled  so 
By  mere  men's  hands. 

Above,  around,  high-vaulted  hell  expands, 
Steep,  dense,  a  labyrinth  walled  and  roofed  with 

woe. 
Whose  mysteries  even  itself  not  understands. 

The  scorn  in  Farinata's  eyes  aglow 
Seems  visible  in  this  flame  :  there  Geryon  stands : 
No  stage  of  earth's  is  here,  set  forth  to  show 
By  mere  men's  hands. 

VI 

Night,  in  utmost  noon  forlorn  and  strong,  with 
heart  athirst  and  fasting, 


192      ^tlm  ^poem0  of  ^toinbume 

Hungers  here,  barred  up  for  ever,  whence  as  ont 
whom  dreams  affright 

Day  recoils  before  the  low-browed  lintel  threat- 
ening doom  and  casting  Night. 

All  the  reefs  and  islands,  all  the  lawns  and 
highlands,  clothed  with  light. 

Laugh  for  love's  sake  in  their  sleep  outside :  but 
here  the  night  speaks,  blasting 

Day  with  silent  speech  and  scorn  of  all  things 
known  from  depth  to  height. 

Lower  than  dive  the  thoughts  of  spirit-stricken 

fear  in  souls  forecasting 
Hell,  the  deep  void  seems  to  yawn  beyond  fear's 

reach,  and  higher  than  sight 
Rise  the  walls  and  roofs  that  compass  it  about 

with  everlasting  Night. 

VII 

Thehouseaccurst,with  cursing  sealed  and  signed. 
Heeds  not  what  storms  about  it  burn  and  burst: 
No  fear  more  fearful  than  its  own  may  find 
The  house  accurst. 

Barren  as  crime,  anhungered  and  athirst. 
Blank  miles  of  moor  sweep  inland,  sere  and  blind. 
Where  summer's  best  rebukes  not  winter's  worst. 


3In  (Suernsfe^  193 

The  low  bleak  tower  with  nought  save  wastes 

behind 
Stares  down  the  abyss  whereon  chance  reared 

and  nursed 
This  type  and   likeness  of  the  accurst    man's 

mind, 

The  house  accurst. 

VIII 

Beloved  and  blest,  lit  warm  with  love  and  fame, 
The  house  that  had  the  light   of  the   earth  for 

guest 
Hears  for  his  name's  sake  all  men  hail  its  name 
Beloved  and  blest. 

This  eyrie  was  the  homeless  eagle's  nest 
When    storm    laid  waste   his   eyrie :  hence  he 

came 
Again   when    storm    smote   sore    his    mother's 

breast. 

Bow  down   men   bade   us,  or   be   clothed  with 

blame 
And  mocked   for  madness  :   worst,  they  sware, 

was  best  ; 
But  grief  shone  here,  while  joy  was  one  with 

shame, 

Beloved  and  blest. 


[94     Select  |poem0  of  ^toinbume 

MARCH;  AN  ODE 


Ere  frost-flower  and  snow-blossom  faded  and 

fell,   and  the    splendour  of  winter  had 

passed  out  of  sight, 
The    ways    of  the  woodlands  were  fairer  and 

stranger    than  dreams  that   fulfil   us  in 

sleep  with  delight ; 
The  breath  of  the  mouths  of  the  winds   had 

hardened  on  tree-tops  and  branches  that 

glittered  and  swayed 
Such  wonders  and  glories  of  blossomlike  snow 

or  of  frost  that  outlightens  all  flowers  till 

it  fade 
That  the  sea  was  not  lovelier  than  here  was  the 

land,  nor  the  night  than  the  day,  nor  the 

day  than  the  night. 
Nor  the  winter  sublimer  with  storm  than  the 

spring  :  such  mirth  had  the  madness  and 

might  in  thee  made, 
March,  master   of   winds,  bright  minstrel  and 

marshal    of   storms    that    enkindle    the 

season  they  smite. 

II 

And  now  that  the  rage  of  thy  rapture  is  satiate 
with  revel  and  ravin  and  spoil  of  the  snow. 


^arclj:  an  (©De  195 

And  the  branches  it  brightened  are  broken,  and 

shattered    the    tree-tops    that    only   thy 

wrath  could  lay  low, 
How    should    not    thy   lovers  rejoice   in    thee, 

leader  and  lord  of  the  year  that  exults  to 

be  born 
So  strong   in  thy  strength  and  so  glad  of  thy 

gladness  whose  laughter  puts  winter  and 

sorrow  to  scorn  ? 
Thou  hast  shaken  the  snows  from  thy  wings,  and 

the  frost  on  thy  forehead  is  molten :  thy 

lips  are  aglow 
As  a  lover's  that  kindle  with  kissing,  and  earth, 

with  her  raiment  and  tresses  yet  wasted 

and  torn. 
Takes  breath  as  she  smiles  in  the  grasp  of  thy 

passion  to  feel   through   her    spirit  the 

sense  of  thee  flow. 

Ill 

Fain,  fain  would  we  see  but  again  for  an  hour 

what  the  wind  and  the  sun  have  dispelled 

and  consumed. 
Those  full  deep  swan-soft  feathers  of  snow  with 

whose    luminous    burden    the    branches 

implumed 
Hung  heavily,  curved  as  a  half-bent  bow,  and 

fledged  not  as  birds  are,  but  petalled  as 

flowers, 


196     g)elect  poentfl!  of  ^toinbume 

Each  tree-top  and  branchlet  a  pinnacle  jewelled 

and  carved,  or  a  fountain  that  shines  as 

it  showers. 
But  fixed  as  a  fountain  is  fixed  not,  and  wrought 

not  to  last  till  by  time  or  by  tempest 

entombed. 
As  a  pinnacle  carven  and  gilded  of  men  :   for 

the  date  of  its  doom  is  no  more  than  an 

hour's. 
One  hour  of  the  sun's  when  the  warm  wind 

wakes  him  to  wither  the  snow-flowers 

that  froze  as  they  bloomed. 

IV 

As  the  sunshine  quenches  the  snowshine ;  as 
April  subdues  thee,  and  yields  up  his 
kingdom  to  May  ; 

So  time  overcomes  the  regret  that  is  born  of 
delight  as  it  passes  in  passion  away. 

And  leaves  but  a  dream  for  desire  to  rejoice  in 
or  mourn  for  with  tears  or  thanksgiv- 
ings -,  but  thou. 

Bright  god  that  art  gone  from  us,  maddest  and 
gladdest  of  months,  to  what  goal  hast 
thou  gone  from  us  now  ? 

For  somewhere  surely  the  storm  of  thy  laughter 
that  lightens,  the  beat  of  thy  wings  that 
play, 


spared :  an  (©oe  197 

Must  flame  as  a  fire  through  the  world,  and  the 

heavens   that   we   know   not  rejoice  in 

thee  :  surely  thy  brow 
Hath  lost  not  its  radiance  of  empire,  thy  spirit 

the  joy  that  impelled  it  on  quest  as  for 

prey. 


Are  thy  feet  on  the  ways  of  the  limitless  waters, 

thy  wings   on  the  winds  of  the   waste 

north  sea  ? 
Are  the  fires  of  the  false  north  dawn  over  hea- 
vens wheresummer  is  stormful  and  strong 

like  thee 
Now  bright  in  the  sight  of  thine  eyes  ?  are  the 

bastions  of  icebergs  assailed  by  the  blast 

of  thy  breath  ? 
Is  it  March  with  the  wild  north  world  when 

April    is    waning  ?    the  word    that    the 

changed  year  saith, 
Is  it  echoed  to  northward  with  rapture  of  passion 

reiterate  from  spirits  triumphant  as  we 
Whose  hearts  were  uplift  at  the  blast  of  thy 

clarions  as  men's  rearisen   from  a  sleep 

that  was  death 
And  kindled  to  life  that  was  one  with  the  world's 

and  with  thine  ?  hast  thou  set  not  the 

whole  world  free  ? 


198     Select  potmi  of  ^tDinbume 

VI 

For  the  breath  of  thy  lips  is  freedom,  and  free- 
dom's the  sense  of  thy  spirit,  the  sound 
of  thy  song. 

Glad  god  of  the  north-east  wind,  whose  heart  is 
as  high  as  the  hands  of  thy  kingdom  are 
strong, 

Thy  kingdom  whose  empire  is  terror  and  joy, 
twin-featured  and  fruitful  of  births  di- 
vine. 

Days  lit  with  the  flame  of  the  lamps  of  the 
flowers,  and  nights  that  are  drunken  with 
dew  for  wine, 

And  sleep  not  for  joy  of  the  stars  that  deepen 
and  quicken,  a  denser  and  fierier  throng, 

And  the  world  that  thy  breath  bade  whiten 
and  tremble  rejoices  at  heart  as  they 
strengthen  and  shine. 

And  earth  gives  thanks  for  the  glory  bequeathed 
her,  and  knows  of  thy  reign  that  it 
wrought  not  wrong. 

VII 

Thy  spirit  is  quenched  not,  albeit  we  behold  not 

thy  face  in  the  crown  of  the  steep  sky's 

arch. 
And  the  bold  first  buds  of  the  whin  wax  golden, 

and  witness  arise  of  the  thorn  and  the 

larch  : 


^  iforsfaken  <fi>artien  199 

Wild  April,  enkindled  to  laughter  and  storm  by 

the  kiss   of  the    wildest  of  winds  that 

blow, 
Calls  loud  on  his  brother  for  witness  ;  his  hands 

that     were     laden     with     blossom     are 

sprinkled  with  snow, 
And  his  lips  breathe  winter,  and  laugh,  and  re- 
lent ;   and  the  live   woods   feel  not  the 

frost's  flame  parch  ; 
For  the  flame  of  the  spring  that  consumes  not 

but  quickens  is  felt  at  the  heart  of  the 

forest  aglow,  • 

And  the  sparks  that  enkindled  and  fed  it  were 

strewn  from  the  hands  of  the  gods  of 

the  winds  of  March. 


A    FORSAKEN    GARDEN 

In  a  coign   of  the   clifF  between  lowland   and 
highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge   between   windward 
and  lee. 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 
The   steep   square  slope   of  the  blossomless 
bed 


200     Select  poem£f  of  ^toinbume 

Where   the   weeds   that   grew   green   from  the 
graves  of  its  roses 
Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken. 
Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's 
hand  ? 
So  long  have  the  grey  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 
Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make 
way. 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of 
time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken  ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 
The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 
These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls 
not  ; 
As  the  heart  of  a   dead   man   the   seed-plots 
are  dry  i 


^  i?or0afeen  ^arUm  201 

From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightin- 
gale calls  not. 
Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to 
reply. 
Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song ; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 

One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 
Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In    a    round    where    life    seems    barren     as 
death. 
Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weep- 
ing, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 
Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart  handfast  in  heart  as  they  stood,  "  Look 
thither," 
Did   he  whisper  ?     "  Look   forth    from    the 
flowers  to  the  sea  ; 
For   the   foam-flowers  endure  when   the   rose- 
blossoms  wither. 
And   men    that   love  lightly   may  die  —  but 
we  ?  " 


202     Select  ^oemsf  of  ^iuinburne 

And  the  same  wind  sang  and  the  same  waves 
whitened, 
And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that   had  whispered,  the  eyes  that 
had  lightened, 

Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life  through,  and  then  went 
whither  ? 
And  were  one  to  the  end  —  but  what  end 
who  knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither. 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love 
them  ? 
What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them 
Or  the  wave. 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and 
the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not   a  breath  shall  there  sweeten  the  seasons 
hereafter 
Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now 
or  weep, 


0  iforsfaken  ^arDm  203 

When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 
laughter 

We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever ; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise 
up  never, 
Who  have  left  nought  living  to  ravage  and 
rend. 
Earth,  stones,  and  thorns  of  the  wild  ground 
growing, 
While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall 
be ; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blow- 
ing 

Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble. 
Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides 
humble 
The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink. 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter. 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 
spread. 
As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 


204     Select  l^otm&  of  ^iuinbume 

ON   THE   VERGE 

Here  begins  the  sea  that  ends  not  till  the  world's 

end.    Where  we  stand, 
Could  we  know  the  next  high  sea-mark  set  be- 
yond these  waves  that  gleam, 
We  should  know  what  never  man  hath  known, 

nor  eye  of  man  hath  scanned. 
Nought  beyond  these  coiling  clouds  that  melt 

like  fume  of  shrines  that  steam 
Breaks  or  stays  the  strength  of  waters  till  they 

pass  our  bounds  of  dream. 
Where  the  waste  Land's  End  leans  westward, 

all  the  seas  it  watches  roll 
Find   their   border   fixed   beyond   them,   and   a 

worldwide  shore's  control : 
These  whereby  we  stand  no  shore  beyond  us 

limits  :  these  are  free. 
Gazing  hence,  we  see  the  water  that  grows  iron 

round  the  Pole, 
From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  beyond  it  set 

in  all  the  sea. 

Sail  on  sail  along  the  sea-line  fades  and  flashes ; 

here  on  land 
Flash  and  fade  the  wheeling  wings  on  wings  of 

mews  that  plunge  and  scream. 


(©n  t^e  WevQt  205 

Hour  on  hour  along  the  line  of  life  and  time's 

evasive  strand 
Shines  and  darkens,  wanes  and  waxes,  slays  and 

dies :   and  scarce  they  seem 
More  than  motes  that  thronged  and  trembled  in 

the  brief  noon's  breath  and  beam. 
Some  with  crying  and  wailing,  some  with  notes 

like  sound  of  bells  that  toll, 
Some  with    sighing   and    laughing,   some   with 

words  that  blessed  and  made  us  whole, 
Passed,  and  left  us,  and  we  know  not  what  they 

were,  nor  what  were  we. 
Would  we  know,  being  mortal  ?    Never  breath 

of  answering  whisper  stole 
From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  beyond  it  set 

in  all  the  sea. 

Shadows,  would  we  question  darkness  ?    Ere  our 

eyes  and  brows  be  fanned 
Round  with  airs  of  twilight,  washed  with  dews 

from  sleep's  eternal  stream. 
Would  we  know  sleep's  guarded  secret  ?    Ere 

the  fire  consume  the  brand. 
Would  it  know  if  yet  its  ashes  may  requicken  ? 

yet  we  deem 
Surely  man  may  know,  or  ever  night  unyoke  her 

starry  team. 
What  the  dawn  shall  be,  or  if  the  dawn  shall  be 

not :  yea,  the  scroll 


2o6     Select  |pocttt0  of  ^tDinbume  i 

Would  we  read  of  sleep's  dark  scripture,  pledge 

of  peace  or  doom  of  dole. 
Ah,  but  here  man's  heart  leaps,  yearning  toward 

the  gloom  with  venturous  glee, 
Though  his  pilot  eye  behold  nor  bay  nor  harbour, 

rock  nor  shoal, 
From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  beyond  it  set 

in  all  the  sea. 

Friend,  who  knows  if  death  indeed  have  life  or 
life  have  death  for  goal  ? 

Day  nor  night  can  tell  us,  nor  may  seas  declare 
nor  skies  unroll 

What  has  been  from  everlasting,  or  if  aught 
shall  alway  be. 

Silence  answering  only  strikes  response  rever- 
berate on  the  soul 

From  the  shore  that  hath  no  shore  beyond  it  set 
in  all  the  sea. 


RECOLLECTIONS 
I 

Years  upon  years,  as  a  course  of  clouds  that 

thicken. 
Thronging  the  ways  of  the  wind  that  shifts  and 

veers. 


I 


KecoUection0  207 

Pass,  and  the  flames  of  remembered  fires  requicken 
Years  upon  years. 

Surely  the  thought  in  a  man's  heart  hopes  or  fears 
Now  that  forgetfulness  needs  must  here  have 

stricken 
Anguish,  and  sweetened  the   sealed-up  springs 

of  tears. 

Ah,  but  the  strength  of  regrets  that  strain  and 

sicken, 
Yearning  for  love  that  the  veil  of  death  endears. 
Slackens  not  wing  for  the  wings  of  years  that 

quicken  — 

Years  upon  years. 

II 

Years  upon  years,  and  the  flame  of  love's  high 

altar 
Trembles  and  sinks,  and  the  sense  of  listening  ears 
Heeds  not  the  sound  that  it  heard  of  love's  blithe 

psalter 

Years  upon  years. 

Only  the  sense  of  a  heart  that  hearkens  hears. 
Louder  than  dreams  that  assail  and  doubts  that 

palter. 
Sorrow  that  slept  and  that  wakes  ere  sundawn 

peers. 


2o8      Select  ^^onnflf  of  ^toinburne 

Wakes,  that  the  heart  may  behold,  and  yet  not 

falter, 
Faces  of  children  as  stars  unknown  of,  spheres 
Seen  but  of  love,  that  endures  though  all  things 

alter, 

Years  upon  years. 

Ill 

Years  upon  years,    as  a  watch    by  night  that 

passes, 
Pass,  and  the    light  of  their  eyes   is   fire  that 

sears 
Slowly  the  hopes  of  the  fruit  that  life  amasses 
Years  upon  years. 

Pale    as    the    glimmer    of   stars    on    moorland 

meres 
Lighten    the    shadows    reverberate    from    the 

glasses 
Held  in  their  hands  as  they  pass  among  their 

peers. 

Lights  that  are  shadows,  as  ghosts  on  graveyard 

grasses, 
Moving  on    paths  that  the  moon  of   memory 

cheers. 
Show  but  as  mists  over  cloudy  mountain  passes 
Years  upon  years. 


ifrom  ^talanca  in  Cal^oon       209 

FROM  ATALANTA  IN  CALYDON 

CHORUS 

When  the    hounds  of  spring  are  on  winter's 
traces, 

The    mother    of   months    in   meadow   or 
plain 
Fills  the  shadows  and  windy  places 

With  lisp  of  leaves  and  ripple  of  rain  ; 
And  the  brown  bright  nightingale  amorous 
Is  half  assuaged  for  Itylus, 
For  the  Thracian  ships  and  the  foreign  faces, 

The  tongueless  vigil,  and  all  the  pain. 

Come  with  bows  bent  and  with  emptying  of 
quivers. 
Maiden  most  perfect,  lady  of  light, 
With  a  noise  of  winds  and  many  rivers. 

With    a    clamour    of    waters,    and    with 
might; 
Bind  on  thy  sandals,  O  thou  most  fleet. 
Over  the  splendour  and  speed  of  thy  feet  ; 
For    the    faint    east    quickens,   the    wan    west 
shivers, 
Round  the  feet  of  the  day  and  the  feet  of 
the  night. 


210      Select  ^poentfif  of  ^tomburne 

Where  shall  we  find  her,  how  shall  we  sing  to 
her, 
Fold  our  hands  round  her  knees,  and  cling  ? 
O  that  man's  heart  were  as  fire  and  could  spring 
to  her, 
Fire,  or  the   strength   of  the  streams  that 
spring ! 
For  the  stars  and  the  winds  are  unto  her 
As  raiment,  as  songs  of  the  harp-player  ; 
For  the  risen  stars  and  the  fallen  cling  to  her, 
And  the  southwest-wind  and  the  west-wind 


For  winter's  rains  and  ruins  are  over, 

And  all  the  season  of  snows  and  sins ; 

The  days  dividing  lover  and  lover, 

The  light  that  loses,  the  night  that  wins; 

And  time  remembered  is  grief  forgotten. 

And  frosts  are  slain  and  flowers  begotten, 

And  in  green  underwood  and  cover 

Blossom  by  blossom  the  spring  begins. 

The  full  streams  feed  on  flower  of  rushes, 
Ripe  grasses  trammel  a  travelling  foot. 

The  faint  fresh  flame  of  the  young  year  flushes 
From  leaf  to  flower  and  flower  to  fruit ; 

And  fruit  and  leaf  are  as  gold  and  fire, 

And  the  oat  is  heard  above  the  lyre, 


ifrom  ^talanta  to  Cal^Don        211 

And  the  hoofed  heel  of  a  satyr  crushes 

The  chestnut-husk  at  the  chestnut-root. 

And  Pan  by  noon  and  Bacchus  by  night, 

Fleeter  of  foot  than  the  fleet-foot  kid, 
Follows  with  dancing  and  fills  with  delight 

The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid  ; 
And  soft  as  lips  that  laugh  and  hide 
The  laughing  leaves  of  the  trees  divide. 
And  screen  from  seeing  and  leave  in  sight 
The  god  pursuing,  the  maiden  hid. 

The  ivy  falls  with  the  Bacchanal's  hair 

Over  her  eyebrows  hiding  her  eyes  ; 
The  wild  vine  slipping  down  leaves  bare 

Her  bright  breast  shortening  into  sighs ; 
The  wild  vine  slips  with  the  weight  of  its  leaves, 
But  the  berried  ivy  catches  and  cleaves 
To  the  limbs  that  glitter,  the  feet  that  scare 
The  wolf  that  follows,  the  fawn  that  flies. 

CHORUS 

Before  the  beginning  of  years. 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 

Time,  with  a  gift  of  tears  ; 
Grief,  with  a  glass  that  ran  ; 

Pleasure,  with  pain  for  leaven  ; 
Summer,  with  flowers  that  fell ; 


2 1 2      Select  poems:  of  ^toinbumc 

Remembrance  fallen  from  heaven. 

And  madness  risen  from  hell ; 
Strength  without  hands  to  smite  j 

Love  that  endures  for  a  breath ; 
Night,  the  shadow  of  light, 

And  life,  the  shadow  of  death. 

And  the  high  gods  took  in  hand 

Fire,  and  the  falling  of  tears, 
And  a  measure  of  sliding  sand 

From  under  the  feet  of  the  years  ; 
And  froth  and  drift  of  the  sea; 

And  dust  of  the  labouring  earth; 
And  bodies  of  things  to  be 

In  the  houses  of  death  and  of  birth ; 
And  wrought  with  weeping  and  laughter, 

And  fashioned  with  loathing  and  love, 
With  life  before  and  after 

And  death  beneath  and  above, 
For  a  day  and  a  night  and  a  morrow. 

That  his  strength  might  endure  for  a  span 
With  travail  and  heavy  sorrow, 

The  holy  spirit  of  man. 

From  the  winds  of  the  north  and  the  south 

They  gathered  as  unto  strife  ; 
They  breathed  upon  his  mouth. 

They  filled  his  body  with  life ; 


ifrom  €xtt\)t\)tviii  213 

Eyesight  and  speech  they  wrought 

For  the  veils  of  the  soul  therein, 
A  time  for  labour  and  thought, 

A  time  to  serve  and  to  sin  ; 
They  gave  him  light  in  his  ways, 

And  love,  and  a  space  for  delight. 
And  beauty  and  length  of  days. 

And  night,  and  sleep  in  the  night. 
His  speech  is  a  burning  fire ; 

With  his  lips  he  travaileth ; 
In  his  heart  is  a  blind  desire, 

In  his  eyes  foreknowledge  of  death  ; 
He  weaves,  and  is  clothed  with  derision; 

Sows,  and  he  shall  not  reap ; 
His  life  is  a  watch  or  a  vision 

Between  a  sleep  and  a  sleep. 

FROM    ERECHTHEUS 

CHORUS 

Out  of  the  north  wind  grief  came  forth,    [Str.  i. 

And  the  shining  of  a  sword  out  of  the  sea. 
Yea,  of  old  the  first-blown  blast  blew  the  pre- 
lude of  this  last. 

The  blast  of  his  trumpet  upon  Rhodope. 
Out  of  the  north  skies  full  of  his  cloud. 
With  the  clamour  of  his  storms  as  of  a  crowd 


214      Select  iponns!  of  ^toinbume 

At  the  wheels  of  a  great  king  crying  aloud. 
At  the  axle  of  a  strong  king's  car 
That  has  girded  on  the  girdle  of  war  — 
With  hands  that  lightened  the  skies  in  sunder 
And  feet  whose  fall  was  followed  of  thunder, 

A  God,  a  great  God  strange  of  name, 

With  horse-yoke  fleeter-hoofed  than  flame. 
To  the  mountain  bed  of  a  maiden  came, 
Oreithyia,  the  bride  mismated, 
Wofully  wed  in  a  snow-strewn  bed 
With  a  bridegroom  that  kisses  the  bride's  mouth 

dead  ; 
Without  garland,  without  glory,  without  song, 
As  a  fawn  by  night  on  the  hills  belated. 
Given  over  for  a  spoil  unto  the  strong. 
From  lips  how  pale  so  keen  a  wail  [j^nt.  i. 

At  the  grasp  of  a  God's  hand  on  her  she  gave. 
When  his  breath  that  darkens  air  made  a  havoc 
of  her  hair. 

It  rang  from  the  mountain  even  to  the  wave ; 
Rang  with  a  cry,  Woe^s  me^  tvoe  is  me  ! 
From  the  darkness  upon  Haemus  to  the  sea  : 
And  with  hands  that  clung  to  her  new  lord's 

knee. 
As  a  virgin  overborne  with  shame. 
She  besought  him  by  her  spouseless  fame. 
By  the  blameless  breasts  of  a  maid  unmarried 
And  locks  unmaidenly  rent  and  harried. 


ifrom  (^i:ecl)tl)eufl!  215 

And  all  her  flower  of  body,  born 
To  match  the  maidenhood  of  morn, 
With  the  might  of  the  wind's  wrath  wrenched 

and  torn. 
Vain,  all  vain  as  a  dead  man's  vision 
trailing  by  night  in  his  old  friends'  sight, 
To  be  scattered  with  slumber  and  slain  ere  light ; 
Such  a  breath  of  such  a  bridegroom  in  that  hour 
Of  her  prayers  made  mock,  of  her  fears  derision, 
And  a  ravage  of  her  youth  as  of  a  flower. 
With  a  leap  of  his  limbs  as  a  lion's,  a  cry  from 
his  lips  as  of  thunder,  [Str.  2. 

In  a  storm  of  amorous  godhead  filled  with  fire. 
From  the  height  of  the  heaven  that  was  rent 
with  the  roar  of  his  coming  in  sunder. 
Sprang  the  strong  God  on  the  spoil  of  his 

desire. 
And  the  pines  of  the  hills  were  as  green  reeds 

shattered. 
And  their  branches  as  buds  of  the  soft  spring 

scattered. 
And  the  west  wind  and  east,  and  the  sound 

of  the  south. 
Fell  dumb  at  the  blast  of  the  north  wind's 
mouth. 
At  the  cry  of  his  coming  out  of  heaven. 
And  the  wild  beasts  quailed  in  the  rifts  and 
hollows 


2i6     Select  poems:  of  ^tDinbume 

Where    hound     nor    clarion    of    huntsman 

follows, 
And  the  depths  of  the  sea  were  aghast,  and 

whitened, 
And  the  crowns  of  their  waves  were  as  flame 

that  lightened, 
And  the  heart  of  the  floods  thereof  was 

riven. 
But   she  knew  not  him  coming  for  terror,  she 

felt  not  her  wrong  that  he  wrought  her, 
When  her  locks  as  leaves  were  shed  before 

his  breath,  {^nt.  2. 

And  she  heard  not  for  terror  his  prayer,  though 

the  cry  was  a  God's  that  besought  her. 
Blown    from   lips  that  strew  the  world-wide 

seas  with  death. 
For  the  heart  was  molten  within  her  to  hear, 
And  her  knees  beneath  her  were  loosened  for 

fear, 
And  her  blood   fast   bound  as  a  frost-bound 

water, 
And  the  soft  new  bloom  of  the  green  earth's 

daughter 
Wind-wasted  as  blossom  of  a  tree  ; 
As  the  wild  God  rapt  her  from  earth's  breast 

lifted. 
On  the   strength  of  the  stream  of  his  dark 

breath  drifted, 


ifrom  (Bttc\)t\)m&  217 

From  the  bosom  of  earth  as  a  bride  from  the 

mother, 
With   storm    for   bridesman   and   wreck    for 

brother, 
As  a  cloud  that  he  sheds  upon  the  sea. 

Of  this  hoary-headed  woe  [EpoJe. 

Song  made  memory  long  ago  ; 
Now  a  younger  grief  to  mourn 
Needs  a  new  song  younger  born. 
Who  shall  teach  our  tongues  to  reach 
What  strange  height  of  saddest  speech, 
For  the  new   bride's   sake   that    is  given   to 

be 
A  stay  to  fetter  the  foot  of  the  sea, 
Lest  it   quite   spurn   down   and   trample    the 

town. 
Ere  the  violets  be  dead  that  were  plucked  for 
its  crown. 

Or  its  olive-leaf  whiten  and  wither  ? 
Who  shall  say  of  the  wind's  way 
That  he  journeyed  yesterday, 
Or  the  track  of  the  storm  that  shall  sound 

to-morrow. 
If  the  new  be  more  than  the  grey-grown  sor- 
row ? 
For  the  wind  of  the  green  first  season  was 
keen. 


2 1 8      Select  l^otms  of  ^iDmbume 

And  the  blast  shall  be  sharper  that  blew  be- 
tween 

That    the    breath   of  the   sea   blows 
hither. 

CHORUS 

From  the  depth  of  the  springs  of  my  spirit  a 

fountain  is  poured  of  thanksgiving, 
My  country,  my  mother,  for  thee. 
That  thy  dead  for  their  death  shall  have  life  in 

thy  sight  and  a  name  everliving 
At  heart  of  thy  people  to  be. 
In  the  darkness  of  change  on  the  waters  of  time 

they  shall  turn  from  afar 
To  the  beam  of  this  dawn  for  a  beacon,  the  light 

of  these  pyres  for  a  star. 
They  shall  see  thee  who  love  and  take  comfort, 

who  hate  thee  shall  see  and  take  warn- 

Our  mother  that  makest  us  free  ; 
And  the  sons  of  thine  earth  shall  have  help  of 
the  waves  that  made  war  on  their  morn- 
ing, 
And  friendship  and  fame  of  the  sea. 


^t&ptm  21  g 


HESPERIA 

Out  of  the  golden  remote  wild  west  where  the 
sea  without  shore  is, 
Full  of  the  sunset,  and  sad,  if  at  all,  with  the 
fulness  of  joy. 
As  a  wind  sets  in  with  the  autumn  that  blows 
from  the  region  of  stories, 
Blows  with  a  perfume  of  songs  and  of  mem- 
ories beloved  from  a  boy. 
Blows  from  the  capes  of  the  past  oversea  to  the 
bays  of  the  present. 
Filled  as  with  shadow  of  sound  with  the  pulse 
of  invisible  feet. 
Far  out  to  the  shallows  and  straits  of  the  future, 
by  rough  ways  or  pleasant. 
Is  it  thither  the  wind's  wings  beat  ?  is  it  hither 
to  me,  O  my  sweet  ? 
For  thee,  in  the  stream  of  the  deep  tide-wind 
blowing  in  with  the  water. 
Thee  I  behold  as  a  bird  borne  in  with  the 
wind  from  the  west. 
Straight   from  the  sunset,  across    white  waves 
whence  rose  as  a  daughter 
Venus  thy  mother,  in  years  when  the  world 
was  a  water  at  rest. 


220      Select  poems:  of  ^toinbume 

Out  of  the  distance  of  dreams,  as  a  dream  that 
abides  after  slumber. 
Strayed  from  the  fugitive  flock  of  the  night, 
when  the  moon  overhead 
Wanes  in  the  wan  waste  heights  of  the  heaven, 
and  stars  without  number 
Die  without  sound,  and  are  spent  hke  lamps 
that  are  burnt  by  the  dead. 
Comes  back  to  me,  stays  by  me,  lulls  me  with 
touch  of  forgotten  caresses. 
One  warm  dream  clad  about  with  a  fire  as  of 
life  that  endures ; 
The  delight  of  thy  face,  and  the  sound  of  thy 
feet,  and  the  wind  of  thy  tresses. 
And  all  of  a  man  that  regrets,  and  all  of  a  maid 
that  allures. 
But  thy  bosom  is  warm  for  my  face  and  pro- 
found as  a  manifold  flower. 
Thy  silence  as  music,  thy  voice  as  an  odour 
that  fades  in  a  flame ; 
Not  a  dream,  not  a  dream   is  the  kiss  of  thy 
mouth,  and  the  bountiful  hour 
That  makes   me   forget  what  was   sin,  and 
would  make  me  forget  were  it  shame. 
Thine  eyes  that  are  quiet,  thine  hands  that  are 
tender,  thy  lips  that  are  loving. 
Comfort  and  cool  me  as  dew  in  the  dawn  of 
a  moon  like  a  dream  ; 


l^esfperia  221 

And  my  heart  yearns  baffled  and  blind,  moved 
vainly  tow^ard  thee,  and  moving 
As  the  refluent  seaw^eed  moves  in  the  languid 
exuberant  stream. 
Fair  as  a  rose  is  on  earth,  as  a  rose  under  water 
in  prison. 
That  stretches  and  swings  to  the  slow  pas- 
sionate pulse  of  the  sea. 
Closed  up  from  the  air  and  the  sun,  but  alive,  as 
a  ghost  rearisen. 
Pale  as  the  love  that  revives  as  a  ghost  rearisen 
in  me. 
From  the  bountiful  infinite  west,  from  the  happy 
memorial  places 
Full  of  the  stately  repose  and  the  lordly  delight 
of  the  dead. 
Where  the  fortunate  islands  are  lit  with  the  light 
of  ineffable  faces. 
And  the  sound  of  a  sea  without  wind  is  about 
them,  and  sunset  is  red. 
Come  back  to  redeem  and  release  me  from  love 
that  recalls  and  represses. 
That  cleaves  to  my  flesh  as  a  flame,  till  the 
serpent  has  eaten  his  fill ; 
From  the  bitter  delights  of  the  dark,  and  the 
feverish,  the  furtive  caresses 
That  murder  the  youth  in  a  man  or  ever  his 
heart  have  its  will. 


222      Select  ;[poent0  of  ^toinbume 

Thy  lips  cannot   laugh   and   thine  eyes  cannot 
weep  ;   thou  art  pale  as  a  rose  is, 
Paler  and  sweeter  than  leaves  that  cover  the 
blush  of  the  bud  ; 
And  the  heart  of  the  flower  is  compassion,  and 
pity  the  core  it  encloses. 
Pity,  not  love,  that  is  born  of  the  breath  and 
decays  with  the  blood. 
As  the  cross  that  a  wild  nun  clasps  till  the  edge 
of  it  bruises  her  bosom. 
So  love  wounds  as  we  grasp  it,  and  blackens 
and  burns  as  a  flame  ; 
I  have  loved   overmuch  in  my  life ;  when  the 
live  bud  bursts  with  the  blossom, 
Bitter  as  ashes  or  tears  is  the  fruit,  and  the 
wine  thereof  shame. 
As  a  heart  that  its  anguish  divides  is  the  green 
bud  cloven  asunder  ; 
As  the  blood  of  a  man  self-slain  is  the   flush 
of  the  leaves  that  allure  ; 
And  the  perfume   as   poison  and  wine  to  the 
brain,  a  delight  and  a  wonder; 
And  the  thorns  are  too  sharp  for  a  boy,  too 
slight  for  a  man,  to  endure. 
Too  soon  did  I  love  it,  and  lost  love's  rose  ;  and 
I  cared  not  for  glory's  ; 
Only  the  blossoms  of  sleep  and  of  pleasure 
were  mixed  in  my  hair. 


l^eflfperia  223 

Was  it  myrtle  or  poppy  thy  garland  was  woven 
with,  O  my  Dolores  ? 
Was  it  pallor  of  slumber,  or  blush  as  of  blood, 
that  I  found  in  thee  fair  ? 
For  desire  is  a  respite  from  love,  and  the  flesh 
not  the  heart  is  her  fuel; 
She  was  sweet  to  me  once,  who  am  fled  and 
escaped  from  the  rage  of  her  reign  ; 
Who  behold  as  of  old  time  at  hand  as  I  turn, 
with  her  mouth  growing  cruel. 
And  flushed  as  with  wine  with  the  blood  of 
her  lovers,  Our  Lady  of  Pain. 
Low  down   where  the   thicket  is   thicker  with 
thorns  than  with  leaves  in  the  summer, 
In  the  brake  is  a  gleaming  of  eyes  and  a  hiss- 
ing of  tongues  that  I  knew  ; 
And  the  lithe  long  throats  of  her  snakes  reach 
round  her,  their  mouths  overcome  her. 
And  her  lips  grow  cool  with  their  foam,  made 
moist  as  a  desert  with  dew. 
With  the  thirst  and  the  hunger  of  lust  though 
her  beautiful  lips  be  so  bitter. 
With  the  cold  foul  foam  of  the  snakes  they 
soften  and  redden  and  smile ; 
And  her  fierce  mouth  sweetens,  her  eyes  wax 
wide  and  her  eyelashes  glitter. 
And  she  laughs  with  a  savour  of  blood  in  her 
face,  and  a  savour  of  guile. 


224      Select  l^otm&  of  ^tombume 

She  laughs,  and  her  hands  reach  hither,  her  hair 
blows  hither  and  hisses. 
As  a  lowlit  flame  in  a  wind,  back-blown  till 
it  shudder  and  leap ; 
Let  her  lips  not  again  lay  hold  on  my  soul,  nor 
her  poisonous  kisses, 
To  consume  it  alive    and    divide   from    thy 
bosom.  Our  Lady  of  Sleep. 
Ah  daughter  of  sunset  and  slumber,  if  now  it 
return  into  prison. 
Who  shall   redeem  it  anew  ?  but  we,  if  thou 
wilt,  let  us  fly  ; 
Let  us  take  to  us,  now  that   the  white   skies 
thrill  with  a  moon  unarisen. 
Swift  horses  of  fear  or  of  love,  take  flight  and 
depart  and  not  die. 
They  are  swifter  than  dreams,  they  are  stronger 
than  death;  there  is  none  that  hath  ridden, 
None  that  shall  ride  in  the  dim  strange  ways 
of  his  life  as  we  ride  ; 
By  the  meadows  of  memory,  the  highlands  of 
hope,  and  the  shore  that  is  hidden. 
Where  life  breaks  loud  and  unseen,  a  sonor- 
ous invisible  tide  ; 
By  the  sands  where  sorrow  has  trodden,  the  salt 
pools  bitter  and  sterile. 
By  the  thundering  reef  and  the  low  sea-wall 
and  the  channel  of  years, 

1 


l^esperia  225 

Our  wild  steeds  press  on  the  night,  strain  hard 
through  pleasure  and  peril, 
Labour  and  listen  and  pant  not  or  pause  for 
the  peril  that  nears  ; 
And    the    sound    of   them   trampling    the   way 
cleaves  night  as  an  arrow  asunder, 
And  slow  by  the  sand-hill  and  swift  by  the 
down  with  its  glimpses  of  grass. 
Sudden  and   steady  the  music,  as    eight  hoofs 
trample  and  thunder. 
Rings  in  the  ear  of  the  low  blind  wind  of  the 
night  as  we  pass  ; 
Shrill   shrieks  in  our  faces  the  blind  bland  air 
that  was  mute  as  a-  maiden, 
Stung  into  storm  by  the  speed  of  our  passage, 
and  deaf  where  we  past ; 
And  our  spirits  too  burn   as   we   bound,  thine 
holy  but  mine  heavy-laden. 
As  we  burn  with  the  fire  of  our  flight ;  ah 
love,  shall  we  win  at  the  last  ? 


226      Select  ^otma  of  ^tombume 


TWO    PRELUDES 
I 

LOHENGRIN 

Love,  out  of  the  depth  of  things, 
As  a  dewfall  felt  from  above. 
From  the  heaven  whence  only  springs 
Love  — 

Love,  heard  from  the  heights  thereof. 
The  clouds  and  the  watersprings. 
Draws  close  as  the  clouds  remove. 

And  the  soul  in  it  speaks  and  sings, 
A  swan  sweet-souled  as  a  dove. 
An  echo  that  only  rings 
Love. 

II 

TRISTAN    UND    ISOLDE 

Fate,  out  of  the  deep  sea's  gloom. 
When  a  man's  heart's  pride  grows  great. 
And  nought  seems  now  to  foredoom 
Fate, 


B  ^asfteu  ©igil  227 

Fate,  laden  with  fears  in  wait, 

Draws  close  through  the  clouds  that  loom. 

Till  the  soul  see,  all  too  late. 

More  dark  than  a  dead  world's  tomb. 
More  high  than  the  sheer  dawn's  gate, 
More  deep  than  the  wide  sea's  womb. 
Fate. 

A   WASTED    VIGIL 
I 

CouLDST  thou  not  watch  with  me  one  hour  ? 

Behold, 
Dawn  skims  the  sea  with  flying  feet  of  gold. 
With  sudden  feet  that  graze  the  gradual  sea ; 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

II 

What,  not  one  hour  ?   for  star  by  star  the  night 
Falls,  and  her  thousands  world   by  world  take 

flight  ; 
They  die,  and  day  survives,  and  what  of  thee  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me? 

Ill 

Lo,  far  in  heaven  the  web  of  night  undone, 
And  on  the  sudden  sea  the  gradual  sun ; 


228      Select  poemsf  of  ^tDinburne 

Wave  to  wave  answers,  tree  responds  to  tree; 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

IV 

Sunbeam  by  sunbeam  creeps  from  line  to  line, 
Foam    by    foam    quickens    on    the   brightening 

brine; 
Sail  by  sail  passes,  flower  by  flower  gets  free ; 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

V 

Last  year,  a  brief  while  since,  an  age  ago, 
A  whole  year  past,  with  bud  and  bloom  and  snow, 
O  moon  that  wast  in  heaven,  what  friends  were 
we  ! 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ?  ' 

VI 

Old   moons,  and  last   year's   flowers,  and  last 

year's  snows  ! 
Who  now  saith  to  thee,  moon  ?  or  who  saitl 

rose  ? 
O  dust  and  ashes,  once  found  fair  to  see ! 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

VII 

O  dust  and  ashes,  once  thought  sweet  to  smell ! 
With  me  it  is  not,  is  it  with  thee  well  ? 


1 


I 


^  WSSLnmn  JBigil  229 

O  sea-drift  blown  from  windward  back  to  lee ! 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

VIII 

The  old  year's  dead  hands  are  full  of  their  dead 

flowers, 
The  old  days  are  full  of  dead  old  loves  of  ours, 
Born  as  a  rose,  and  briefer  born  than  she ; 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

IX 

Could  two  days  live  again  of  that  dead  year, 
One  would  say,  seeking  us  and  passing  here, 
IVhere  is  she  f  and  one  answering,  JVhere  is  he  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

X 

Nay,  those  two  lovers  are  not  anywhere  ; 
If  we  were  they,  none  knows  us  what  we  were. 
Nor  aught  of  all  their  barren  grief  and  glee. 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

XI 

Half  false,  half  fair,  all  feeble,  be  my  verse 
Upon  thee  not  for  blessing  nor  for  curse; 
For  some  must  stand,  and  some  must  fall  or 
flee  ; 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 


230      Select  poems?  of  ^toinburnr 

XII 

As  a  new  moon  above  spent  stars  thou  wast; 
But  stars  endure  after  the  moon  is  past. 
Couldst   thou   not   watch   one   hour,  though  I 
watch  three  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

XIII 

What  of  the  night  ?    The  night  is  full,  the  tide 
Storms  inland,  the  most  ancient  rocks  divide ; 
Yet  some  endure,  and  bow  nor  head  nor  knee  j 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  with  me  ? 

XIV 

Since  thou  art  not  as  these  are,  go  thy  ways ; 
Thou  hast  no  part  in  all  my  nights  and  days. 
Lie  still,  sleep  on,  be  glad  —  as  such  things  be; 
Thou  couldst  not  watch  with  me. 


THE   SUNDEW 

A  LITTLE  marsh-plant,  yellow  green, 
And  pricked  at  lip  with  tender  red. 
Tread  close,  and  either  way  you  tread 
Some  faint  black  water  jets  between 
Lest  you  should  bruise  the  curious  head. 


turtle  ^unDetD  231 

A  live  thing  may  be;  who  shall  know? 
The  summer  knows  and  suffers  it ; 
For  the  cool  moss  is  thick  and  sweet 
Each  side,  and  saves  the  blossom  so 
That  it  lives  out  the  long  June  heat. 

The  deep  scent  of  the  heather  burns 
About  it ;  breathless  though  it  be, 
Bow  down  and  worship ;  more  than  we 
Is  the  least  flower  whose  life  returns, 
Least  weed  renascent  in  the  sea. 

We  are  vexed  and  cumbered  in  earth's  sight 
With  wants,  with  many  memories ; 
These  see  their  mother  what  she  is. 
Glad-growing,  till  August  leave  more  bright 
The  apple-coloured  cranberries. 

Wind  blows  and  bleaches  the  strong  grass. 
Blown  all  one  way  to  shelter  it 
From  trample  of  strayed  kine,  with  feet 
Felt  heavier  than  the  moorhen  was, 
Strayed  up  past  patches  of  wild  wheat. 

You  call  it  sundew  :   how  it  grows, 
If  with  its  colour  it  have  breath, 
If  life  taste  sweet  to  it,  if  death 
Pain  its  soft  petal,  no  man  knows : 
Man  has  no  sight  or  sense  that  saith. 


232     Select  poenifl!  of  ^toinbume 

My  sundew,  grown  of  gentle  days, 
In  these  green  miles  the  spring  begun 
Thy  growth  ere  April  had  half  done 
With  the  soft  secret  of  her  ways 
Or  June  made  ready  for  the  sun. 

0  red-lipped  mouth  of  marsh-flower, 

1  have  a  secret  halved  with  thee. 
The  name  that  is  love's  name  to  me 
Thou  knowest,  and  the  face  of  her 
Who  is  my  festival  to  see. 

The  hard  sun,  as  thy  petals  knew. 
Coloured  the  heavy  moss-water : 
Thou  wert  not  worth  green  midsummer 
Nor  fit  to  live  to  August  blue, 
O  sundew,  not  remembering  her. 


A    MATCH 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is, 

And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 
Our  lives  would  grow  together 
In  sad  or  singing  weather. 
Blown  fields  or  flowerful  closes. 
Green  pleasure  or  gray  grief; 


^  spatclj  233 

If  love  were  what  the  rose  is. 
And  I  were  like  the  leaf. 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are. 
And  love  were  like  the  tune, 

With  double  sound  and  single 

Delight  our  lips  would  mingle, 

With  kisses  glad  as  birds  are 
That  get  sweet  rain  at  noon ; 

If  I  were  what  the  words  are, 
And  love  were  like  the  tune. 

if  you  were  life,  my  darling. 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

We'd  shine  and  snow  together 

Ere  March  made  sweet  the  weather 

With  daffodil  and  starling 

And  hours  of  fruitful  breath  ; 

If  you  were  life,  my  darling. 
And  I  your  love  were  death. 

If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow, 

And  I  were  page  to  joy, 
We'd  play  for  lives  and  seasons 
With  loving  looks  and  treasons 
And  tears  of  night  and  morrow 

And  laughs  of  maid  and  boy  j 
If  you  were  thrall  to  sorrow. 

And  I  were  page  to  joy. 


234      Select  :ijDonnsf  of  ^toinburne 

If  you  were  April's  lady, 

And  I  were  lord  in  May, 
We'd  throw  with  leaves  for  hours 
And  draw  for  days  with  flowers. 
Till  day  like  night  were  shady 

And  night  were  bright  like  day  j 
If  you  were  April's  lady, 
And  I  were  lord  in  May. 

If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure, 

And  I  were  king  of  pain. 
We'd  hunt  down  love  together, 
Pluck  out  his  flying-feather. 
And  teach  his  feet  a  measure. 
And  find  his  mouth  a  rein  j 
If  you  were  queen  of  pleasure. 
And  I  were  king  of  pain. 


THE  SALT   OF  THE   EARTH 

If  childhood  were  not  in  the  world. 
But  only  men  and  women  grown } 

No  baby-locks  in  tendrils  curled. 
No  baby-blossoms  blown  ; 

Though  men  were  stronger,  women  fairer, 
And  nearer  all  delights  in  reach, 


<0f  ^ut\)  is  t\)t  l^ingDom  of  ^tBtim  235 

And  verse  and  music  uttered  rarer 
Tones  of  more  godlike  speech  ; 

Though  the  utmost  life  of  life's  best  hours 
Found,  as  it  cannot  now  find,  words  ; 

Though  desert  sands  were  sweet  as  flowers 
And  flowers  could  sing  like  birds ; 

But  children  never  heard  them,  never 
They  felt  a  child's  foot  leap  and  run, 

This  were  drearier  star  than  ever 
Yet  looked  upon  the  sun. 


OF   SUCH    IS   THE    KINGDOM    OF 
HEAVEN 

Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

No  glory  that  ever  was  shed 
From  the  crowning  star  of  the  seven 

That  crown  the  north  world's  head. 

No  word  that  ever  was  spoken 
Of  human  or  godlike  tongue, 

Gave  ever  such  godlike  token 
Since  human  harps  were  strung. 

No  sign  that  ever  was  given 
To  faithful  or  faithless  eyes 


236     Select  poemflf  of  ^tDinbunte 

Showed  ever  beyond  clouds  riven 
So  clear  a  Paradise. 

Earth's  creeds  may  be  seventy  times  seven 
And  blood  have  defiled  each  creed : 

If  of  such  be  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 
It  must  be  heaven  indeed. 


A    CHILD'S    LAUGHTER 

All  the  bells  of  heaven  may  ring, 
All  the  birds  of  heaven  may  sing. 
All  the  wells  on  earth  may  spring. 
All  the  winds  on  earth  may  bring 

All  sweet  sounds  together  ; 
Sweeter  far  than  all  things  heard. 
Hand  of  harper,  tone  of  bird, 
Sound  of  woods  at  sundown  stirred, 
Welling  water's  winsome  word. 

Wind  in  warm  wan  weather. 

One  thing  yet  there  is,  that  none 
Hearing  ere  its  chime  be  done 
Knows  not  well  the  sweetest  one 
Heard  of  man  beneath  the  sun. 

Hoped  in  heaven  hereafter  ; 
Soft  and  strong  and  loud  and  light. 


0  €\)iW&  ifuture  237 

Very  sound  of  very  light 

Heard  from  morning's  rosiest  height, 

When  the  soul  of  all  delight 

Fills  a  child's  clear  laughter. 

Golden  bells  of  welcome  rolled 
Never  forth  such  notes,  nor  told 
Hours  so  blithe  in  tones  so  bold 
As  the  radiant  mouth  of  gold 

Here  that  rings  forth  heaven. 
If  the  golden-crested  wren 
Were  a  nightingale  —  why,  then, 
Something  seen  and  heard  of  men 
Might  be  half  as  sweet  as  when 

Lauehs  a  child  of  seven. 


A    CHILD'S    FUTURE 

What  will  it  please  you,  my  darling,  hereafter 

to  be  ? 
Fame  upon  land  will  you  look  for,  or  glory  by 

sea  ? 
Gallant  your  life  will  be   always,  and  all  of  it 

free. 

Free  as  the  wind  when  the  heart  of  the  twilight 
is  stirred 


238      Select  poem0  of  ^tombume 

Eastward,  and  sounds  from  the  springs  of  the 

sunrise  are  heard  : 
Free  —  and  we   know  not  another  as    infinite 

word. 

Darkness  or  twilight  or  sunlight  may  compass 

us  round, 
Hate   may   arise   up  against   us,  or  hope   may 

confound ; 
Love  may  forsake  us ;  yet  may  not  the  spirit  be 

bound. 

Free  in  oppression  of  grief  as  in  ardour  of  joy 
Still  may  the  soul  be,  and  each  to  her  strength 

as  a  toy : 
Free  in  the  glance  of  the  man  as  the  smile  of 

the  boy. 

Freedom  alone  is  the  salt  and  the  spirit  that  gives 
Life,  and  without  her  is  nothing  that  verily  lives  : 
Death  cannot  slay  her:   she  laughs  upon  death 
and  forgives. 

Brightest  and  hardiest  of  roses  anear  and  afar 
Glitters  the  blithe  little  face  of  you,  round  as 

a  star : 
Liberty  bless  you  and  keep  you  to  be  as  you 

are. 


0 115ab^'0  SDeatt)  239 

England  and  liberty  bless  you  and  keep  you  to  be 
Worthy  the  name  of  their  child  and  the  sight 

of  their  sea  : 
Fear  not  at  all ;   for  a  slave,  if  he  fears  not,  is 

free. 

A    BABY'S    DEATH 
I 

A  LITTLE  soul  scarce  fledged  for  earth 
Takes  wing  with  heaven  again  for  goal 
Even  while  we  hailed  as  fresh  from  birth 
A  little  soul. 

Our  thoughts  ring  sad  as  bells  that  toll. 
Not  knowing  beyond  this  blind  world's  girth 
What  things  are  writ  in  heaven's  full  scroll. 

Our  fruitfulness  is  there  but  dearth, 
And  all  things  held  in  time's  control 
Seem  there,  perchance,  ill  dreams,  not  worth 
A  little  soul. 

II 

The  little  feet  that  never  trod 
Earth,  never  strayed  in  field  or  street. 
What  hand  leads  upward  back  to  God 
The  little  feet  ? 


240     Select  |5ofttt0  of  ^tomburne 

A  rose  in  June's  most  honied  heat, 
When  life  makes  keen  the  kindling  sod, 
Was  not  so  soft  and  warm  and  sweet. 

Their  pilgrimage's  period 
A  few  swift  moons  have  seen  complete 
Since  mother's  hands  first  clasped  and  shod 
The  little  feet. 

Ill 

The  little  hands  that  never  sought 
Earth's  prizes,  worthless  all  as  sands, 
What  gift  has  death,  God's  servant,  brought 
The  little  hands  ? 

We  ask  :  but  love's  self  silent  stands. 
Love,  that  lends  eyes  and  wings  to  thought 
To  search  where  death's  dim  heaven  expands. 

Ere  this,  perchance,  though  love  know  nought, 
P'lowers  fill  them,  grown  in  lovelier  lands, 
Where  hands  of  guiding  angels  caught 
The  little  hands. 

IV 

The  little  eyes  that  never  knew 
Light  other  than  of  dawning  skies. 
What  new  life  now  lights  up  anew 
The  little  eyes  ? 


0  Babe's;  SDeat^  241 

Who  knows  but  on  their  sleep  may  rise 
Such  light  as  never  heaven  let  through 
To  lighten  earth  from  Paradise  ? 

No  storm,  we  know,  may  change  the  blue 
Soft  heaven  that  haply  death  descries ; 
No  tears,  like  these  in  ours,  bedew 
The  little  eyes. 


Was  life  so  strange,  so  sad  the  sky, 

So  strait  the  wide  world's  range, 
He  would  not  stay  to  wonder  why 

Was  life  so  strange  ? 

Was  earth's  fair  house  a  joyless  grange 

Beside  that  house  on  high 
Whence  Time  that  bore  him  failed  to  estrange  ? 

That  here  at  once  his  soul  put  by 

All  gifts  of  time  and  change. 
And  left  us  heavier  hearts  to  sigh 
"  Was  life  so  strange  ?  " 

VI 

Angel  by  name  love  called  him,  seeing  so  fair 

The  sweet  small  frame  ! 
Meet  to  be  called,  if  ever  man's  child  were, 

Angel  by  name. 


242      Select  l^otm&  of  ^tDinbume 

Rose-bright  and  warm  from  heaven's  own  heart 

he  came. 

And  might  not  bear 
The  cloud  that  covers  earth's   wan  face   with 

shame. 

His  little  light  of  life  was  all  too  rare 

And  soft  a  flame  : 
Heaven   yearned  for  him  till  angels  hailed  him 
there 

Angel  by  name. 

VII 

The  song  that  smiled  upon  his  birthday  here 
Weeps  on  the  grave  that  holds  him  undefiled 
Whose  loss  makes  bitterer  than  a  soundless  tear 
The  song  that  smiled. 

His   name    crowned    once   the    mightiest    ever 

styled 
Sovereign  of  arts,  and  angel :   fate  and  fear 
Knew  then  their  master,  and  were  reconciled. 

But  we  saw  born  beneath  some  tenderer  sphere 
Michael,  an  angel  and  a  little  child. 
Whose  loss  bows  down  to  weep  upon  his  bier 
The  song  that  smiled. 


4 


I 


SONNETS 


HOPE  AND  FEAR 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  dawn's  aerial  cope, 
With  eyes  enkindled  as  the  sun's  own  sphere, 
Hope  from  the   front    of  youth   in    godlike 
cheer 
Looks  Godward,  past  the  shades  where  blind 

men  grope 
Round  the  dark  door  that  prayers  nor  dreams 
can  ope, 
And  makes  for  joy  the  very  darkness  dear 
That  gives  her  wide  wings  play  ;  nor  dreams 
that  fear 
At  noon  may  rise  and  pierce  the  soul  of  hope. 
Then,  when  the  soul  leaves  off  to  dream  and 

yearn. 
May  truth  first  purge  her  eyesight  to  discern 
What    once    being    known    leaves    time   no 
power  to  appal  ; 
Till  youth  at  last,  ere  yet  youth  be  not,  learn 
The  kind  wise  word  that  falls  from  years  that 
fall  — 
"  Hope  thou  not  much,  and   fear  thou   not  at 
all." 


244     Select  poentfif  of  ^toinbume 

"NON    DOLET" 

It  does  not  hurt.    She  looked  along  the  knife 
Smiling,  and  watched  the  thick  drops  mix  and 

run 
Down  the  sheer  blade ;  not  that  which  had 
been  done 

Could  hurt  the  sweet  sense  of  the  Roman  wife 

But  that  which  was  to  do  yet  ere  the  strife 
Could  end  for  each  for  ever,  and  the  sun  : 
Nor  was  the  palm  yet  nor  was  peace  yet  won 

While  pain  had  power  upon  her  husband's  life. 

It  does  not  hurt,  Italia.    Thou  art  more 

Than  bride  to  bridegroom  ;  how  shalt  thou  not 

take 
The  gift  love's  blood  has  reddened  for  thy  sake? 

Was  not  thy  lifeblood  given  for  us  before  ? 
And  if  love's  heartblood  can  avail  thy  need. 
And  thou  not  die,  how  should  it  hurt  indeed  ? 


PELAGIUS 

I 

The  sea  shall  praise  him  and  the  shores  bear  part 
That  reared  him  when  the  bright  south  world 
was  black 


i 


:|prlagiuB;  245 

With  fume  of  creeds  more  foul  than  hell's 
own  rack, 
Still  darkening  more  love's  face  with  loveless  art 
Since  Paul,  faith's  fervent  Antichrist,  of  heart 
Heroic,  haled  the  world  vehemently  back 
From  Christ's  pure  path  on  dire  Jehovah's 
track, 
And  said  to  dark  Elisha's  Lord,  "  Thou  art." 
But  one  whose  soul  had  put  the  raiment  on 
Of  love  that  Jesus  left  with  James  and  John 
Withstood  that  Lord  whose  seals  of  love  were 
lies. 
Seeing  what  we  see  —  how,  touched  by  Truth's 

bright  rod. 
The  fiend  whom  Jews  and  Africans  called  God 
Feels  his  own  hell  take  hold  on  him,  and  dies. 

II 

The  world  has  no  such  flower  in  any  land. 
And  no  such  pearl  in  any  gulf  the  sea, 
As  any  babe  on  any  mother's  knee. 

But   all   things   blessed   of  men    by  saints   are 
banned  : 

God  gives  them  grace  to  read  and  understand 
The  palimpsest  of  evil,  writ  where  we. 
Poor  fools  and  lovers  but  of  love,  can  see 

Nought  save  a  blessing  signed  by  Love's  own 
hand. 


246     Select  ponng  of  ^toinbume 

The  smile  that  opens  heaven  on  us  for  them 
Hath  sin's  transmitted  birthmark  hid  therein  : 
The  kiss  it  craves  calls  down  from  heaven 
a  rod. 
If  innocence  be  sin  that  Gods  condemn, 

Praise  we  the  men  who  so  being  born  in  sin 
First  dared  the  doom  and   broke  the  bonds 
of  God. 


Ill 

Man's  heel  is  on  the  Almighty's  neck  who  said, 
Let  there  be  hell,  and  there  was  hell  —  on 

earth. 
But  not  for  that  may  men  forget  their  worth — 
Nay,  but  much  more  remember  them  —  who  led 
The  living  first  from  dwellings  of  the  dead. 
And  rent   the  cerecloths  that  were  wont  to 

engirth 

Souls  wrapped  and  swathed  and  swaddled  from 

their  birth 

With  lies  that  bound  them  fast  from  heel  to  head. 

Among  the  tombs  when  wise  men  all  their  lives 

Dwelt,  and  cried  out,  and  cut  themselves  with 

knives, 
These  men,  being  foolish,  and  of  saints  abhorred, 

Beheld  in  heaven  the  sun  by  saints  reviled, 
Love,  and  on  earth  one  everlasting  Lord 
In  every  likeness  of  a  little  child. 


tETlie  Wt&cmt  into  l^ell  247 

THE  DESCENT  INTO  HELL 
I 

O  NIGHT  and  death,  to  whom  we  grudged  him 
then, 
When  in  man's  sight  he  stood  not  yet  undone, 
Your  king,  your  priest,  your  saviour,  and  your 
son. 

We  grudge  not  now,  who  know  that  not  again 

Shall  this  curse  come  upon  the  sins  of  men, 
Nor  this  face  look  upon  the  living  sun 
That  shall  behold  not  so  abhorred  an  one 

In  all  the  days  whereof  his  eye  takes  ken. 

The  bond  is  cancelled,  and  the  prayer  is  heard 
That  seemed  so  long  but   weak   and  wasted 

breath  ; 
Take  him,  for  he  is  yours,  O  night  and  death. 

Hell  yawns  on  him  whose  life  was  as  a  word 
Uttered  by  death  in  hate  of  heaven  and  light, 
A  curse  now  dumb  upon  the  lips  of  night. 

II 

What  shapes  are  these  and  shadows  without  end 
That  fill  the  night  full  as  a  storm  of  rain 
With  myriads  of  dead  men  and  women  slain. 

Old  with  young,  child  with  mother,  friend  with 
friend. 


248     Select  pormsf  of  ^toinburne 

That  on  the  deep  mid  wintering  air  impend, 
Pale  yet  with  mortal  wrath  and  human  pain, 
Who  died  that  this  man  dead  now  too  might 
reign, 
Toward  whom  their  hands  point  and  their  faces 

bend  ? 
The  ruining  flood  would  redden  earth  and  air 
If  for  each  soul  whose  guiltless  blood  was  shed 
There  fell  but  one  drop  on  this  one  man's  head 
Whose  soul  to-night  stands  bodiless  and  bare. 
For  whom  our  hearts  give  thanks  who  put  up 
prayer. 
That  we  have  lived  to  say,  The  dog  is  dead. 


THE  MODERATES 

Virtutem  -videant  intdbescantque  relicta 

She  stood  before  her  traitors  bound  and  bare. 
Clothed  with  her  wounds  and  with  her  naked 

shame 
As  with  a  weed  of  fiery  tears  and  flame. 
Their  mother-land,  their  common  weal  and  care, 
And  they  turned  from  her  and  denied,  and  sware 
They  did  not  know  this  woman  nor  her  name. 
And  they  took  truce  with  tyrants  and  grew 
tame, 


tD^lje  )15urum  of  0u0tna         249 

And  gathered  up  cast  crowns  and  creeds  to  wear, 
And  rags  and  shards  regilded.    Then  she  took 
In  her  bruised  hands  their  broken  pledge,  and 

eyed 
These  men  so  late  so  loud  upon  her  side 
With  one  inevitable  and  tearless  look, 
That  they  might  see   her  face  whom  they  for- 
sook; 
And  they  beheld  what  they  had  left,  and  died. 


THE    BURDEN   OF   AUSTRIA 

O  DAUGHTER  of  pride,  wasted  with  misery. 
With  all  the  glory  that  thy  shame  put  on 
Stripped  off  thy  shame,  O  daughter  of  Babylon, 

Yea,  whoso  be  it,  yea,  happy  shall  he  be 

That  as  thou  hast  served  us  hath  rewarded  thee. 
Blessed,  who  throweth  against  war's  boundary 

stone 
Thy  warrior  brood,  and  breaketh  bone  by  bone 

Misrule  thy  son,  thy  daughter  Tyranny. 

That  landmark  shalt  thou  not  remove  for  shame, 
But  sitting  down  there  in  a  widow's  weed 

Wail ;   for  what  fruit  is  now  of  thy  red  fame  ? 
Have  thy  sons  too  and  daughters  learnt  indeed 
What  thing  it  is  to  weep,  what  thing  to  bleed  ? 

Is  it  not  thou  that  now  art  but  a  name  ? 


250     Select  ^otmg  of  ^iombume 

APOLOGIA 

If  wrath  embitter  the  sweet  mouth  of  song, 
And  make  the  sunlight  fire  before  those  eyes 
That  would  drink  draughts  of  peace  from  the 
unsoiled  skies, 

The  wrongdoing  is  not  ours,  but  ours  the  wrong. 

Who  hear  too  loud  on  earth  and  see  too  long 
The  grief  that  dies  not  with  the  groan  that  dies. 
Till  the  strong  bitterness  of  pity  cries 

Within  us,  that  our  anger  should  be  strong. 

For  chill  is  known  by  heat  and  heat  by  chill. 

And  the  desire  that  hope  makes  love  to  still 
By  the  fear  flying  beside  it  or  above, 
A  falcon  fledged  to  follow  a  fledgeling  dove, 

And  by  the  fume  and  flame  of  hate  of  ill 

The  exuberant  light  and  burning  bloom  of  love. 


ON   THE   RUSSIAN    PERSECUTION 
OF   THE   JEWS 

O  SON  of  man,  by  lying  tongues  adored. 

By  slaughterous  hands  of  slaves  with  feet  red- 
shod 
In  carnage  deep  as  ever  Christian  trod 

Profaned  with  prayer  and  sacrifice  abhorred 


2D^s(tl)anato0  251 

And  incense  from  the  trembling  tyrant's  horde, 
Brute  worshippers  or  wielders  of  the  rod, 
Most  murderous  even  of  all  that  call  thee  God, 
Most   treacherous   even    that   ever   called  thee 

Lord  ; 
Face  loved  of  little  children  long  ago, 

Head  hated  of  the  priests  and  rulers  then 
If  thou  see  this,  or  hear  these  hounds  of 

thine 
Run  ravening  as  the  Gadarean  swine. 
Say,  was  not  this  thy  Passion,  to  foreknow 
In  death's  worst  hour  the  works  of  Christian 
men  ? 

DYSTHANATOS 

Ad  generem  Cereris  sine  cade  et  "vulnere  pauci 
Descendant  reges,  aut  sicca  morte  tyranni 

By  no  dry  death  another  king  goes  down 

The  way  of  kings.    Yet  may  no  free  man's 
voice. 

For  stern  compassion  and  deep  awe,  rejoice 
That  one  sign  more  is  given  against  the  crown. 
That  one  more  head  those  dark  red  waters  drown 

Which  rise  round  thrones  whose  trembling 
equipoise 

Is  propped  on  sand  and  bloodshed  and  such  toys 
As  human  hearts  that  shrink  at  human  frown. 


252      Select  l^otms  of  ^toinbume 

The  name  writ  red  on  Polish  earth,  the  star 
That  was  to  outshine  our  England's  in  the  far 
East  heaven  of  empire  —  Where  is  one  that 
saith 
Proud  words  now,  prophesying  of  this  White 

Czar  ? 
"  In  bloodless  pangs  few  kings  yield  up  their 
breath. 
Few  tyrants  perish  by  no  violent  death." 


CARNOT 

Death,  winged  with  fire  of  hate  from  deathless 
hell 
Wherein  the  souls  of  anarchs  hiss  and  die. 
With  stroke  as  dire  has  cloven  a  heart  as  high 

As  twice  beyond  the  wide  sea's  westward  swell 

The  living  lust  of  death  had  power  to  quell 
Through  ministry  of  murderous  hands  whereby 
Dark  fate  bade  Lincoln's  head  and  Garfield's 
lie 

Low  even  as  his  who  bids  his  France  farewell. 

France,  now  no  heart  that  would  not  weep  with 
thee 
Loved  ever  faith  or  freedom.    From  thy  hand 
The  staff  of  state  is  broken  :  hope,  unmanned 


i 


Wo&  DfOflf  ilauDamu0  253 

With  anguish,  doubts  if  freedom's  self  be  free. 
The  snake-souled  anarch's  fang  strikes  all  the 
land 
Cold,  and  all  hearts  unsundered  by  the  sea. 


VOS    DEOS    LAUDAMUS 

THE    CONSERVATIVE  JOURNALIST'S  ANTHEM 

"As  a  matter  of  fact,  no  man  living,  or  who  ever  lived  —  not 
Casar  or  Pericles,  not  Shakespeare  or  Michael  Angelo  — 
could  confer  honour  more  than  he  took  on  entering  the  House  of 
Lords." — Saturday  Rcvieiv,  December  15,  1883. 

"  Clumsy  and  shallow  snobbery  —  can  do  no  hurt."  —  Ibid 

I 

O  Lords  our  Gods,  beneficent,  sublime, 

In  the  evening,  and  before  the  morning  flames, 

We  praise,  we  bless,  we  magnify  your  names. 

The  slave  is  he  that  serves  not ;  his  the  crime 

And   shame,  who   hails   not    as  the  crown   of 

Time 

That  House  wherein  the  all-envious  world 

acclaims 
Such  glory  that  the  reflex  of  it  shames 
All  crowns  bestowed  of  men  for  prose  or  rhyme. 
The  serf,  the  cur,  the  sycophant  is  he 
Who  feels  no  cringing  motion  twitch  his  knee 


254      Select  l^otm&  of  ^toinbumr 

When  from  a  height  too  high  for  Shakespeare 
nods 
The  wearer  of  a  higher  than  Milton's  crown. 
Stoop,  Chaucer,  stoop  :   Keats,  Shelley,  Burns, 
bow  down  : 
These  have  no  part  with  you,  O  Lords  our 
Gods. 

II 

O  Lords  our  Gods,  it  is  not  that  ye  sit 

Serene  above  the  thunder,  and  exempt  m 

From  strife  of  tongues   and    casualties  that    ' 

tempt 

Men  merely  found  by  proof  of  manhood  fit  || 

For  service  of  their  fellows  :   this  is  it  ^ 

Which  sets  you  past  the  reach  of  Time's 

attempt. 
Which  gives  us  right  of  justified  contempt 
For  commonwealths  built  up  by  mere  men's  wit : 
That  gold  unlocks  not,  nor  may  flatteries  ope. 
The   portals  of  your  heaven  ;   that  none  may 
hope 
With   you  to  watch  how  life   beneath  you 
plods, 
Save  for  high  service  given,  high  duty  done ; 
That  never  was  your  rank  ignobly  won  : 

For  this  we  give  you   praise,  O  Lords  our 
Gods. 


3In  ^an  iLoren^o  255 

III 

O  Lords  our  Gods,  the  times  are  evil  :  you 
Redeem  the  time,  because  of  evil  days. 
While  abject  souls  in  servitude  of  praise 

Bow  down  to  heads  untitled,  and  the  crew 

Whose  honour  dwells  but  in  the  deeds  they  do, 
From  loftier  hearts  your  nobler  servants  raise 
More  manful  salutation  :  yours  are  bays 

That  not  the  dawn's  plebeian  pearls  bedew ; 

Yours,  laurels    plucked  not  of   such  hands  as 
wove 

Old  age  its  chaplet  in  Colonos'  grove. 

Our  time,  with  heaven  and  with  itself  at  odds, 

Makes  all  lands  else  as  seas  that  seethe  and  boil ; 

But  yours  are  yet  the  corn  and  wine  and  oil. 
And  yours  our  worship    yet,  O   Lords  our 
Gods. 

IN   SAN  LORENZO 

Is   thine    hour    come  to    wake,  O   slumbering 
Night  ? 
Hath  not  the  Dawn  a  message  in  thine  ear? 
Though  thou  be  stone  and  sleep,  yet  shalt 
thou  hear 
When  the  word  falls  from  heaven  —  Let  there 
be  light. 


256      Select  l^otm&  of  ^tDinbume 

Thou  knowest  we  would  not  do  thee  the  de- 
spite 
To  wake  thee  while  the  old  sorrow  and  shame 

were  near  ; 
We   spake  not  loud   for  thy   sake,   and   for 
fear 
Lest  thou  shouldst  lose  the  rest  that  was  thy 

right, 
The  blessing  given  thee  that  was  thine  alone, 
The  happiness  to  sleep  and  to  be  stone  : 

Nay,  we  kept  silence  of  thee  for  thy  sake 
Albeit  we  knew  thee  alive,  and  left  with  thee 
The  great  good  gift  to  feel  not  nor  to  see ; 
But  will  not  yet  thine  Angel  bid  thee  wake  ? 


I 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    BEATRICE 

Dante,  sole  standing  on  the  heavenward  height, 
Beheld  and  heard  one  saying,  "  Behold  me 

well  : 
I  am,  I  am  Beatrice."    Heaven  and  hell 

Kept  silence,  and  the  illimitable  light 

Of  all  the  stars  was  darkness  in  his  sight 
Whose  eyes  beheld  her  eyes  again,  and  fell 
Shame-stricken.    Since  her  soul  took  flight  to 
dwell 

In  heaven,  six  hundred  years  have  taken  flight. 


Ctjrisftopljer  ^arlotoe  257 

And  now  that  heavenliest  part  of  earth  whereon 
Shines  yet  their  shadow  as  once  their  presence 
shone 
To  her  bears  witness  for  his  sake,  as  he 
For  hers  bare  witness  when  her  face  was  gone  : 
No  slave,  no  hospice  now  for  grief —  but  free 
From  shore  to  mountain  and  from  Alp  to  sea. 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE 

Crowned,  girdled,  garbed  and  shod  with  light 
and  fire, 

Son  first-born  of  the  morning,  sovereign  star! 

Soul  nearest  ours  of  all,  that  wert  most  far, 
Most  far  off  in  the  abysm  of  time,  thy  lyre 
Hung  highest  above  the  dawn-enkindled  quire 

Where  all  ye  sang  together,  all  that  are, 

And  all  the  starry  songs  behind  thy  car 
Rang  sequence,  all  our  souls  acclaim  thee  sire. 

*'  If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 

Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  masters'  thoughts," 
And  as  with  rush  of  hurtling  chariots 
The  flight  of  all  their  spirits  were  impelled 
Toward  one  great  end,  thy  glory  —  nay,  not 

then. 
Not  yet  might'st  thou  be  praised  enough  of 
men. 


258     §)elect  poentflf  of  ^tDtnbume 

WILLIAM   SHAKESPEARE 

Not  if  men's  tongues  and  angels'  all  in  one 
Spake,  might  the    word  be  said   that   might 

speak  Thee. 
Streams,  winds,  woods,  flowers,  fields,  moun- 
tains, yea,  the  sea. 

What  power  is  in  them  all  to  praise  the  sun  ? 

His  praise  is  this, —  he  can  be  praised  of  none. 
Man,  woman,  child,  praise  God  for  him ;  but  he 
Exults  not  to  be  worshipped,  but  to  be. 

He  is  :  and,  being,  beholds  his  work  well  done. 

All  joy,  all  glory,  all  sorrow,  all  strength,  all  mirth. 

Are  his  :  without  him,  day  were  night  on  earth. 
Time  knows  not  his  from  time's  own  period. 

All  lutes,  all  harps,  all  viols,  all  flutes,  all  lyres, 

Fall  dumb  before  him  ere  one  string  suspires. 
All  stars  are  angels  ;  but  the  sun  is  God. 


JOHN   WEBSTER 

Thunder  :  the  flesh  quails,  and  the  soul  bows 

down. 
Night :  east,  west,  south,  and  northward,  very 

night. 
Star  upon  struggling  star  strives  into  sight, 


I 


Cor  CorDium  259 

Star  after  shuddering  star  the  deep  storms  drown. 
The  very  throne  of  night,  her  very  crown, 
A  man  lays  hand  on,  and  usurps  her  right. 
Song  from  the  highest  of  heaven's  imperious 
height 
Shoots,  as  a  fire  to  smite  some  towering  town. 
Rage,    anguish,    harrowing   fear,    heart-crazing 

crime, 
Make    monstrous    all    the    murderous    face  of 
Time 
Shown  in  the  spheral  orbit  of  a  glass 
Revolving.    Earth  cries  out  from  all  her  graves. 
Frail,    on    frail     rafts,    across    wide-wallowing 
waves, 
Shapes  here  and  there  of  child  and  mother 
pass. 

COR    CORDIUM 

O  HEART  of  hearts,  the  chalice  of  love's  fire. 
Hid  round  with  flowers  and  all  the  bounty  of 

bloom  ; 
O  wonderful  and  perfect  heart,  for  whom 

The  lyrist  liberty  made  life  a  lyre  ; 

O  heavenly  heart,  at  whose  most  dear  desire 
Dead  love,  living  and  singing,  cleft  his  tomb. 
And  with  him  risen  and  regent  in  death's  room 

All  day  thy  choral  pulses  rang  full  choir; 


26o      Select  :|poemfi:  of  ^tDinbume 


1 


O  heart  whose  beating  blood  was  running  song, 

O  sole  thing  sweeter  than  thine  own  songs 

were, 

Help  us  for  thy  free  love's  sake  to  be  free, 

True  for  thy  truth's  sake,  for  thy  strength's  sake 

strong. 

Till  very  liberty  make  clean  and  fair 

The  nursing  earth  as  the  sepulchral  sea. 


DICKENS 

Chief  in  thy  generation  born  of  men 

Whom  English  praise  acclaimed  as  English- 
born, 
With  eyes  that  matched  the  worldwide  eyes 
of  morn 
For  gleam  of  tears  or  laughter,  tenderest  then 
When  thoughts  of  children  warmed  their  light, 
or  when 
Reverence  of  age  with  love  and  labour  worn, 
Or  godlike  pity  fired  with  godlike  scorn. 
Shot  through  them  flame  that  winged  thy  swift 

live  pen  : 
Where  stars  and  suns  that  we  behold  not  burn, 
Higher  even  than  here,  though  highest  was 
here  thy  place. 
Love  sees  thy  spirit  laugh  and  speak  and  shine 


(Bn  tlie  Deatljfif  of  Carl^lc  anu  €\iot  261 

With  Shakespeare  and  the  soft  bright  soul  of 
Sterne 
And   Fielding's    kindliest    might    and   Gold- 
smith's grace  ; 
Scarce  one  more    loved  or  worthier   love 
than  thine. 


ON     THE      DEATHS     OF     THOMAS 
CARLYLE    AND    GEORGE  ELIOT 

Two  souls  diverse  out  of  our  human  sight 

Pass,  followed  one  with  love  and  each  with 
wonder  ; 

The  stormy  sophist  with  his  mouth  of  thunder, 
Clothed  with  loud  words  and  mantled   in   the 

might 
Of  darkness  and  magnificence  of  night ; 

And  one  whose  eye  could  smite  the  night  in 
sunder, 

Searching  if  light  or  no  light  were  thereunder, 
And  found  in  love  of  loving-kindness  light. 
Duty  divine  and  Thought  with  eyes  of  fire 
Still  following  Righteousness  with  deep  desire 

Shone  sole  and  stern  before  her  and  above, 
Sure  stars  and  sole  to  steer  by  ;  but  more  sweet 
Shone  lower  the  loveliest  lamp  for  earthly  feet, 

The  light  of  little  children,  and  their  love. 


262      ^tittt  l^otma  of  ^iuinburne 

ON   THE    DEATH    OF    ROBERT 
BROWNING 

I 

He  held  no  dream  worth  waking  :   so  he  said,     * 
He   who   stands   now  on   death's    triumphal 

steep, 
Awakened  out  of  life  wherein  we  sleep 
And  dream  of  what  he  knows  and  sees,  being 

dead. 
But  never  death  for  him  was  dark  or  dread  : 
"  Look  forth,"  he  bade  the  soul,  and  fear  not. 
Weep, 
All  ye  that  trust  not  in  his  truth,  and  keep 
Vain  memory's  vision  of  a  vanished  head 
As  all  that  lives  of  all  that  once  was  he 
Save  that  which    lightens   from   his  word  :  but 
we. 
Who,  seeing  the  sunset-coloured  waters  roll, 
Yet  know  the  sun  subdued  not  of  the  sea. 
Nor  weep  nor  doubt  that   still  the  spirit  is 

whole. 
And  life  and  death  but  shadows  of  the  soul. 


PERSONAL  AND   MEMORIAL 
POEMS 


THALASSIUS 

Upon  the  flowery  forefront  of  the  year. 
One  wandering  by  the  grey-green  April  sea 
Found   on   a   reach   of   shingle   and   shallower 

sand 
Inlaid  with  starrier  glimmering  jewellery 
Left   for   the   sun's   love  and   the   light  wind's 

cheer 
Along  the  foam-flowered  strand 
Breeze-brightened,  something    nearer  sea  than 

land 
Though  the  last  shoreward   blossom-fringe  was 

near, 
A  babe  asleep  with  flower-soft  face  that  gleamed 
To  sun  and  seaward  as  it  laughed  and  dreamed, 
Too  sure  of  either  love  for  either's  fear. 
Albeit  so  birdlike  slight  and  light,  it  seemed 
Nor  man  nor  mortal  child  of  man,  but  fair 
As  even   its  twin-born    tenderer   spray-flowers 

were. 
That  the  wind  scatters  like  an  Oread's  hair. 


264     Select  :|poem0  of  ^tombume 

For  when  July  strewed  fire  on  earth  and  sea 
The  last  time  ere  that  year,  J| 

Out  of  the  flame  of  morn  Cymothoe  m 

Beheld  one  brighter  than  the  sunbright  sphere 
Move  toward  her  from  its  fieriest  heart,  whence 

trod 
The  live  sun's  very  God, 
Across  the  foam-bright  water-ways  that  are 
As  heaven lier  heavens  with  star  for  answering 

star, 
And  on  her  eyes  and  hair  and  maiden  mouth 
Felt  a  kiss  falling  fierier  than  the  South, 
And  heard  above  afar 

A  noise  of  songs  and  wind-enamoured  wings 
And    lutes  and  lyres    of   milder   and   mightier 

strings. 
And  round  the  resonant  radiance  of  his  car 
Where  depth  is  one  with  height. 
Light  heard  as  music,  music  seen  as  light. 
And  with  that  second  moondawn  of  the  spring's 
That  fosters  the  first  rose, 
A  sun-child  whiter  than  the  sunlit  snows 
Was  born  out  of  the  world  of  sunless  things 
That  round  the  round  earth  flows  and  ebbs  and 

flows. 

But  he  that  found  the  sea-flower  by  the  sea 
And  took  to  foster  like  a  graft  of  earth 


XE\)uldi6ii'm6  265 

Was  born  of  man's  most  highest  and  heavenliest 

birth, 
Free-born  as  winds  and  stars  and  waves  are  free  ; 
A  warrior  grey  with  glories  more  than  years, 
Though  more  of  years  than  change  the  quick  to 

dead 
Had  rained  their  light  and  darkness  on  his  head  ; 
A  singer  that  in  time's  and  memory's  ears 
Should  leave  such  words  to  sing  as  all  his  peers 
Might  praise  with  hallowing  heat  of  rapturous 

tears 
Till  all  the  days  of  human  flight  were  fled. 
And  at  his  knees  his  fosterling  was  fed 
Not  with  man's  wine  and  bread 
Nor  mortal  mother-milk  of  hopes  and  fears, 
But  food  of  deep  memorial  days  long  sped  ; 
For  bread  with  wisdom  and  with  song  for  wine 
Clear  as  the  full  calm's  emerald  hyaline. 
And  from   his   grave  glad    lips  the  boy  would 

gather 
Fine  honey  of  song-notes  goldener  than  gold, 
More  sweet  than  bees  make  of  the  breathing 

heather. 
That  he,  as  glad  and  bold. 
Might  drink  as  they,  and  keep  his  spirit  from 

cold, 
And  the  boy  loved  his  laurel-laden  hair 
As  his  own  father's  risen  on  the  eastern  air, 


266     fe)elect  :||Doem0  of  ^toinbume 

And  that  less  white  brow-binding  bayleaf  bloom 

More  than  all  flowers  his  father's  eyes  relume ; 

And  those  high  songs  he  heard, 

More  than  all  notes  of  any  landward  bird, 

More  than  all  sounds  less  free 

Than  the  wind's  quiring  to  the  choral  sea. 

High  things  the  high  song  taught  him ;  how 

the  breath 
Too    frail    for  life   may  be   more   strong  than 

death  ; 
And  this  poor  flash  of  sense  in  life,  that  gleams 
As  a  ghost's  glory  in  dreams, 
More  stabile  than  the  world's  own  heart's  root 

seems. 
By  that  strong  faith  of  lordliest  love  which  gives 
To  death's  own  sightless-seeming  eyes  a  light 
Clearer,  to  death's  bare  bones  a  verier  might, 
Than  shines  or  strikes  from  any  man  that  lives. 
How  he  that  loves  life  overmuch  shall  die 
The  dog's  death,  utterly  : 
And  he  that  much  less  loves  it  than  he  hates 
All  wrongdoing  that  is  done 
Anywhere  always  underneath  the  sun 
Shall  live  a  mightier  life  than  time's  or  fate's. 
One  fairer  thing  he  shewed  him,  and  in  might 
More  strong  than  day  and  night 
Whose  strengths  build  up  time's  towering  period : 


Sl)alas;simflf  267 

Yea,  one  thing  stronger  and  more  high  than  God, 
Which  if  man  had  not,  then  should  God  not  be  : 
And  that  was  Liberty. 

And  gladly  should  man  die  to  gain,  he  said. 
Freedom  ;   and  gladlier,  having  lost,  lie  dead. 
For  man's  earth  was  not,  nor  the  sweet  sea- 
waves 
His,  nor  his  own  land,  nor  its  very  graves. 
Except  they  bred  not,  bore  not,  hid  not  slaves  : 
But  all  of  all  that  is. 
Were  one  man  free  in  body  and  soul,  were  his. 

And  the  song   softened,  even   as  heaven  by 
night 
Softens,  from  sunnier  down  to  starrier  light, 
And  with  its  moonbright  breath 
Blessed  life  for  death's  sake,  and  for  life's  sake 

death. 
Till  as  the  moon's  own  beam  and  breath  confuse 
In  one  clear  hueless  haze  of  glimmering  hues 
The  sea's  line  and  the  land's  line  and  the  sky's, 
And  light  for  love  of  darkness  almost  dies. 
As  darkness  only  lives  for  light's  dear  love. 
Whose  hands  the  web  of  night  is  woven  of, 
So  in  that  heaven  of  wondrous  words  were  life 
And  death  brought  out  of  strife ; 
Yea,  by  that  strong  spell  of  serene  increase 
Brought  out  of  strife  to  peace. 


268     Select  poemfif  of  ^tDinburne 

And  the  song  lightened,  as  the  wind  at  morn 
Flashes,  and  even  with  lightning  of  the  wind 
Night's  thick-spun  web  is  thinned 
And  all  its  weft  unwoven  and  overworn 
Shrinks,  as  might  love  from  scorn. 
And  as  when  wind  and  light  on  water  and  land 
Leap  as  twin  gods  from   heavenward   hand  in 

hand, 
And  with  the  sound  and  splendour  of  their  leap 
Strike  darkness  dead,  and  daunt  the  spirit  of 

sleep, 
And  burn  it  up  with  fire; 
So  with  the  light  that  lightened  from  the  lyre 
Was  all  the  bright  heat  in  the  child's  heart  stirred 
And  blown  with  blasts  of  music  into  flame 
Till  even  his  sense  became 
Fire,  as  the  sense  that  fires  the  singing  bird 
Whose  song  calls  night  by  name. 
And  in  the  soul  within  the  sense  began 
The  manlike  passion  of  a  godlike  man, 
And  in  the  sense  within  the  soul  again 
Thoughts  that  make  men  of  gods  and  gods  of 

men. 

For  love  the  high  song  taught  him  :  love  that 
turns 
God's  heart  toward  man  as  man's  to  Godward ;  ^ 
love 


Stialasfsftufif  269 

That  life  and  death  and  life  are  fashioned  of, 
From  the  first  breath  that  burns 
Half  kindled  on  the  flowerlike  yeanling's  lip, 
So  light  and  faint  that  life  seems  like  to  slip, 
To  that  yet  weaklier  drawn 
When  sunset  dies  of  night's  devouring  dawn. 
But  the  man  dying  not  wholly  as  all  men  dies 
If  aught  be  left  of  his  in  live  men's  eyes 
Out  of  the  dawnless  dark  of  death  to  rise; 
If  aught  of  deed  or  word 
Be  seen  for  all  time  or  of  all  time  heard. 
Love,  that  though  body  and  soul  were   over- 
thrown 
Should  live  for  love's  sake  of  itself  alone. 
Though  spirit  and  flesh  were  one  thing  doomed 

and  dead. 
Not  wholly  annihilated. 

Seeing  even  the  hoariest  ash-flake  that  the  pyre 
Drops,  and  forgets  the  thing  was  once  afire 
And  gave  its  heart  to  feed  the  pile's  full  flame 
Till  its  own  heart  its  own  heat  overcame. 
Outlives  its  own  life,  though  by  scarce  a  span, 
As  such  men  dying  outlive  themselves  in  man, 
Outlive  themselves  for  ever;  if  the  heat 
Outburn  the  heart  that  kindled  it,  the  sweet 
Outlast  the  flower  whose  soul  it  was,  and  flit 
Forth  of  the  body  of  it 
Into  some  new  shape  of  a  strange  perfume 


270      Select  poentfif  of  ^tDinbunte 

More  potent  than  its  light  live  spirit  of  bloom, 
How  shall  not  something  of  that  soul  relive, 
That  only  soul  that  had  such  gifts  to  give 
As  lighten  something  even  of  all  men's  doom 
Even  from  the  labouring  womb 
Even  to  the  seal  set  on  the  unopening  tomb  ? 
And  these  the  loving  light  of  song  and  love 
Shall  wrap  and  lap  round  and  impend  above, 
Imperishable  ;   and  all  springs  born  illume 
Their  sleep  with  brighter  thoughts  than  wake  the 

dove 
To  music,  when  the  hillside  winds  resume 
The  marriage-song  of  heather-flower  and  broom 
And  all  the  joy  thereof. 

And  hate  the  song  too  taught  him  :  hate  of 

all 
That  brings  or  holds  in  thrall 
Of  spirit  or  flesh,  free-born  ere  God  began. 
The  holy  body  and  sacred  soul  of  man. 
And  wheresoever  a  curse  was  or  a  chain, 
A  throne  for  torment  or  a  crown  for  bane 
Rose,  moulded  out  of  poor  men's  molten  pain. 
There,  said   he,   should  man's  heaviest  hate  be 

set 
Inexorably,  to  faint  not  or  forget 
Till  the  last  warmth  bled  forth  of  the  last  vein 
In  flesh  that  none  should  call  a  king's  again, 


XB\)uhsi&ivLS  271 

Seeing  wolves  and  dogs  and  birds  that  plague- 
strike  air 
Leave  the  last  bone  of  all  the  carrion  bare. 

And   hope  the  high   song  taught  him  :   hope 

whose  eyes 
Can  sound  the  seas  unsoundable,  the  skies 
Inaccessible  of  eyesight ;  that  can  see 
What  earth  beholds  not,  hear  what  wind  and  sea 
Hear  not,  and  speak  what  all  these  crying  in  one 
Can  speak  not  to  the  sun. 
For  in  her  sovereign  eyelight  all  things  are 
Clear  as  the  closest  seen  and  kindlier  star 
That  marries  morn   and  even  and  winter  and 

spring 
With  one  love's  golden  ring. 
For  she  can  see  the  days  of  man,  the  birth 
Of  good  and  death  of  evil  things  on  earth 
Inevitable  and  infinite,  and  sure 
As  present  pain  is,  or  herself  is  pure. 
Yea,  she  can  hear  and  see,  beyond  all  things 
That   lighten   from    before  Time's  thunderous 

wings 
Through    the    awful     circle    of   wheel-winged 

periods, 
The  tempest  of  the  twilight  of  all  Gods  : 
And  higher  than  all  the  circling  course  they  ran 
The  sundawn  of  the  spirit  that  was  man. 


272      Select  :||Doem0  of  ^iombume 

And  fear  the  song  too  taught  him ;  fear  to  be 
Worthless  the  dear  love  of  the  wind  and  sea 
That  bred  him  fearless,  like  a  sea-mew  reared 
In  rocks  of  man's  foot  feared, 
Where  nought  of  wingless  life  may  sing  or  shine. 
Fear  to  wax  worthless  of  that  heaven  he  had 
When  all  the  life  in  all  his  limbs  was  glad 
And  all  the  drops  in  all  his  veins  were  wine 
And  all  the  pulses  music  ;  when  his  heart, 
Singing,  bade  heaven  and  wind  and  sea  bear  part 
In  one  live  song's  reiterance,  and  they  bore  : 
Fear  to  go  crownless  of  the  flower  he  wore 
When  the  winds  loved  him  and  the  waters  knew, 
The    blithest    life    that    clove  their  blithe   life 

through 
With  living  limbs  exultant,  or  held  strife 
More  amorous  than  all  dalliance  aye  anew 
With  the  bright  breath  and  strength  of  their 

large  life. 
With  all  strong  wrath  of  all  sheer  winds  that 

blew. 
All  glories  of  all  storms  of  the  air  that  fell 
Prone,  ineluctable. 

With  roar  from  heaven  of  revel,  and  with  hue 
As  of  a  heaven  turned  hell. 
For  when  the  red  blast  of  their  breath  had  made 
All    heaven    aflush  with  light    more  dire  than 

shade, 


tE^ljalaflffi^iusf  273 

He  felt  it  in  his  blood  and  eyes  and  hair 
Burn  as  if  all  the  fires  of  the  earth  and  air 
Had  laid  strong  hold  upon  his  flesh,  and  stung 
The  soul  behind  it  as  with  serpent's  tongue, 
Forked  like  the  loveliest   lightnings :  nor  could 

bear 
But  hardly,  half  distraught  with  strong  delight. 
The  joy  that  like  a  garment  wrapped  him  round 
And  lapped  him  over  and  under 
With  raiment  of  great  light 
And  rapture  of  great  sound 
At  every  loud  leap  earthward  of  the  thunder 
From  heaven's  most  furthest  bound  : 
So  seemed  all  heaven  in  hearing  and  in  sight, 
Alive  and  mad  with  glory  and  angry  joy, 
That  something  of  its  marvellous  mirth  and  might 
Moved  even  to  madness,  fledged  as  even  forflight. 
The  blood  and  spirit  of  one  but  mortal  boy. 

So,  clothed  with  love  and  fear  that  love  makes 

great. 
And  armed  with  hope  and  hate. 
He  set  first  foot  upon  the  spring-flowered  ways 
That  all  feet  pass  and  praise. 
And   one   dim   dawn   between   the  winter  and 

spring. 
In  the  sharp  harsh   wind  harrying  heaven  and 

earth 


274      Select  :ipoemsf  of  ^fcoinbume 

To  put  back  April  that  had  borne  his  birth 
From  sunward  on  her  sunniest  shower-struck 

wing, 
With  tears  and  laughter  for  the  dew-dropt  thing, 
Shght  as  indeed  a  dew-drop,  by  the  sea 
One  met  him  lovelier  than  all  men  may  be, 
God-featured,  with   god's  eyes  ;    and    in  their 

might 
Somewhat  that  drew  men's  own  to  mar  their 

sight. 
Even  of  all  eyes  drawn  toward  him :    and  his 

mouth 
Was  as  the  very  rose  of  all  men's  youth, 
One  rose  of  all  the  rose-beds  in  the  world : 
But  round  his  brows  the  curls  were  snakes  that 

curled. 
And  like  his  tongue  a  serpent's ;  and  his  voice 
Speaks  death,  and  bids  rejoice. 
Yet  then  he  spake  no  word,  seeming  as  dumb, 
A  dumb  thing  mild  and  hurtless ;  nor  at  first 
From  his  bowed  eyes  seemed  any  light  to  come, 
Nor  his  meek  lips  for  blood  or  tears  to  thirst : 
But  as  one  blind  and  mute  in  mild  sweet  wise 
Pleading  for  pity  of  piteous  lips  and  eyes, 
He  strayed  with  faint  bare  lily-lovely  feet 
Helpless,  and  flowerlike  sweet : 
Nor  might  man  see,  not  having  word  hereof, 
That  this  of  all  gods  was  the  great  god  Love. 


tE^ljala^sfiug  275 

And  seeing  him  lovely  and  like  a  little  child 
That  wellnigh  wept  for  wonder  that  it  smiled 
And  was  so  feeble  and  fearful,  with  soft  speech 
The  youth  bespalce  him  softly  ;   but  there  fell 
From  the  sweet  lips  no  sweet  word  audible 
That  ear  or  thought  might  reach  : 
No  sound  to  make  the  dim  cold  silence  glad, 
No  breath  to  thaw  the  hard  harsh  air  with  heat ; 
Only  the  saddest  smile  of  all  things  sweet. 
Only  the  sweetest  smile  of  all  things  sad. 

And  so  they  went  together  one  green  way 
Till  April  dying  made  free  the  world  for  May  ; 
And  on  his  guide  suddenly  Love's  face  turned, 
And  in  his  blind  eyes  burned 
Hard  light  and  heat  of  laughter ;  and  like  flame 
That  opens  in  a  mountain's  ravening  mouth 
To  blear  and  sear  the  sunlight  from  the  south. 
His  mute  mouth  opened,  and  his  first  word  came-, 
*'  Knowest  thou  me  now  by  name?  " 
And  all  his  stature  waxed  immeasurable, 
As  of  one  shadowing  heaven  and  lightening  hell : 
And  statelier  stood  he  than  a  tower  that  stands 
And  darkens  with  its  darkness  far-off  sands 
Whereon  the  sky  leans  red  ; 
And  with  a  voice  that  stilled  the  winds  he  said: 
"  I  am  he  that  was  thy  lord  before  thy  birth, 
I  am  he  that  is  thy  lord  till  thou  turn  earth : 


276     g>flcct  potntjf  of  ^tombumt 

I  make  the  night  more  dark,  and  all  the  morrow 
Dark  as  the  night  whose  darkness  was  my  breath : 
O  fool,  my  name  is  sorrow ; 
Thou  fool,  my  name  is  death." 

And  he  that   heard    spake   not,   and   looked 
right  on 
Again,  and  Love  was  gone. 

Through  many  a  night  toward  many  a  wearier 

day 
His  spirit  bore  his  body  down  its  way. 
Through  many  a  day  toward  many  a  wearier 

night 
His  soul  sustained  his  sorrows  in  her  sight. 
And  earth  was  bitter,  and  heaven,  and  even  the 

sea 
Sorrowful  even  as  he. 

And  the  wind  helped  not,  and  the  sun  was  dumb; 
And  with  too  long  strong  stress  of  grief  to  be 
His  heart  grew  sere  and  numb. 

And  one  bright  eve  ere  summer  in  autumn  sank 
At  stardawn  standing  on  a  grey  sea-bank 
He  felt  the  wind  fitfully  shift  and  heave 
As  toward  a  stormier  eve ; 

And  all  the  wan  wide  sea  shuddered  ;    and  earth 
Shook  underfoot  as  toward  some  timeless  birth,  ; 


tEri)alaflfs;m0  277 

Intolerable  and  inevitable  ;    and  all 
Heaven,  darkling,  trembled  like  a  stricken  thrall. 
And  far  out  of  the  quivering  east,  and  far 
From  past  the  moonrise  and  its  guiding  star, 
Began  a  noise  of  tempest  and  a  light 
That  was  not  of  the  lightning ;  and  a  sound 
Rang  with  it  round  and  round 
That  was  not  of  the  thunder ;  and  a  flight 
As  of  blown  clouds  by  night. 
That  was  not  of  them  ;  and  with  songs  and  cries 
That  sang  and  shrieked  their  soul  out  at  the  skies 
A  shapeless  earthly  storm  of  shapes  began 
From  all  ways  round  to  move  in  on  the  man. 
Clamorous  against  him  silent ;  and  their  feet 
Were  as  the  wind's  are  fleet, 
And  their  shrill  songs  were  as  wild  birds'  are 
sweet. 

And  as  when  all  the   world    of  earth    was 

wronged 
And  all  the  host  of  all  men  driven  afoam 
By  the  red  hand  of  Rome, 
Round  some  fierce  amphitheatre  overthronged 
With  fair  clear  faces  full  of  bloodier  lust 
Than  swells  and  stings  the  tiger  when  his  mood 
Is  fieriest  after  blood 
And   drunk  with   trampling  of  the   murderous 

must 


278     Select  l^otm&  of  ^iombume 

That  soaks  and  stains  the  tortuous  close-coiled 

wood 
Made    monstrous    with    its    myriad-mustering 

brood, 
Face  by  fair  face  panted  and  gleamed  and  pressed, 
And  breast  by  passionate  breast 
Heaved    hot   with    ravenous    rapture,   as    they 

quaffed 
The  red  ripe  full  fume  of  the  deep  live  draught, 
The  sharp  quick  reek  of  keen  fresh  bloodshed, 

blown 
Through  the  dense  deep  drift  up  to  the  emperor's 

throne 
From  the  under  steaming  sands 
With  clamour  of  all-applausive  throats  and  hands. 
Mingling  in  mirthful  time 
With  shrill  blithe  mockeries  of  the  lithe-limbed 

mime  : 
So  from  somewhence  far  forth  of  the  unbeholden, 
Dreadfully  driven  from  over  and  after  and  under. 
Fierce,  blown  through  fifes  of  brazen  blast  and 

golden, 
With  sound  of  chiming  waves  that  drown  the 

thunder 
Or  thunder   that   strikes   dumb   the  sea's  own 

chimes, 
Began  the  bellowing  of  the  bull-voiced  mimes 
Terrible ;   firs  bowed  down  as  briars  or  palms 


^Ijala^fifiufif  279 

Even  as  the  breathless  blast  as  of  a  breeze 
Fulfilled  with  clamour  and  clangour  and  storms 

of  psalms  ; 
Red  hands  rent  up  the  roots  of  old-world  trees, 
Thick  flames  of  torches  tossed  as  tumbling  seas 
Made  mad  the  moonless  and  infuriate  air 
That,  ravening,  revelled  in  the  riotous  hair 
And  raiment  of  the  furred  Bassarides. 

So  came  all  those  in  on  him  ;  and  his  heart, 
As  out  of  sleep  suddenly  struck  astart. 
Danced,  and  his  flesh  took  fire  of  theirs,  and 

grief 
Was  as  a  last  year's  leaf 
Blown  dead  far  down  the  wind's  way  ;  and  he 

set 
His  pale  mouth  to  the  brightest  mouth  it  met 
That  laughed  for  love  against  his  lips,  and  bade 
Follow  ;  and  in  following  all  his  blood  grew  glad 
And  as  again  a  sea-bird's ;   for  the  wind 
Took  him  to  bathe  him  deep  round  breast  and 

brow 
Not  as  it  takes  a  dead  leaf  drained  and  thinned, 
But  as  the  brightest  bay-flower  blown  on  bough, 
Set  springing  toward  it  singing :   and  they  rode 
By  many  a  vine-leafed,  many  a  rose-hung  road, 
Exalt  with  exultation  :   many  a  night 
Set  all  its  stars  upon  them  as  for  spies 


28 0     Select  ^poentflf  of  ^tombunte 

On  many  a  moon-bewildering  mountain-height 

Where  he  rode  only  by  the  fierier  light 

Of  his  dread  lady's  hot  sweet  hungering  eyes. 

For  the  moon  wandered  witless  of  her  way, 

Spell-stricken  by  strong  magic  in  such  wise 

As  wizards  use  to  set  the  stars  astray. 

And  in  his  ears  the  music  that  makes  mad 

Beat  always ;  and  what  way  the  music  bade, 

That  always  rode  he ;  nor  was  any  sleep 

His,  nor  from  height  nor  deep. 

But  heaven  was  as  red  iron,  slumberless, 

And  had  no  heart  to  bless  ; 

And  earth  lay  sere  and  darkling  as  distraught, 

And  help  in  her  was  nought. 

Then   many  a   midnight,  many  a  morn   and 

even. 
His  mother,  passing  forth  of  her  fair  heaven. 
With  goodlier  gifts  than  all  save  gods  can  give 
From  earth  or  from  the  heaven  where  sea-things 

live. 
With  shine  of  sea-flowers  through  the  bayleaf 

braid 
Woven  for  a  crown  her  foam-white  hands  had 

made 
To  crown  him  with  land's  laurel  and  sea-dew, 
Sought  the  sea-bird  that  was  her  boy  :   but  he 
Sat  panther-throned  beside  Erigone, 


^\)n\asiius  281 

Riding  the  red  ways  of  the  revel  through 
Midmost  of  pale-mouthed  passion's  crownless 

crew. 
Till  on  some  winter's  dawn  of  some  dim  year 
He  let  the  vine-bit  on  the  panther's  lip 
Slide,  and  the  green  rein  slip, 
And  set  his  eyes  to  seaward,  nor  gave  ear 
If  sound  from  landward  hailed  him,  dire  or  dear ; 
And  passing  forth  of  all  those  fair  fierce  ranks 
Back  to  the  grey  sea-banks. 
Against  a  sea-rock  lying,  aslant  the  steep. 
Fell  after  many  sleepless  dreams  on  sleep. 

And  in  his  sleep  the  dun  green  light  was  shed 
Heavily  round  his  head 

That  through  the  veil  of  sea  falls  fathom-deep, 
Blurred  like  a  lamp's  that  when  the  night  drops 

dead 
Dies  ;  and  his  eyes  gat  grace  of  sleep  to  see 
The  deep  divine  dark  dayshine  of  the  sea. 
Dense  water-walls  and  clear  dusk  water-ways. 
Broad-based,  or  branching  as  a  sea-flower  sprays 
That  side  or  this  dividing;  and  anew 
The  glory  of  all  her  glories  that  he  knew. 
And  in  sharp  rapture  of  recovering  tears 
He  woke  on  fire  with  yearnings  of  old  years, 
Pure  as  one  purged  of  pain  that  passion  bore, 
111  child  of  bitter  mother  ;   for  his  own 


282     Select  ponn0  of  ^iuinbume 

Looked   laughing  toward  him  from  her  midsea 

throne, 
Up  toward  him  there  ashore. 

Thence  in  his  heart  the  great  same  joy  began, 
Of  child  that  made  him  man  : 
And  turned  again  from  all  hearts  else  on  quest, 
He  communed  with  his  own  heart,  and  had  rest. 
And  like  sea-winds  upon  loud  waters  ran 
His  days  and  dreams  together,  till  the  joy 
Burned  in  him  of  the  boy. 
Till   the  earth's   great  comfort   and   the  sweet 

sea's  breath 
Breathed  and  blew  life  in  where  was  heartless 

death. 
Death   spirit-stricken   of  soul-sick  days,  where 

strife 
Of  thought  and  flesh  made  mock  of  death  and 

life. 
And  grace  returned  upon  him  of  his  birth 
Where  heaven  was  mixed  with  heavenlike  sea 

and  earth  ; 
And  song  shot  forth  strong  wings  that  took  the 

sun 
From  inward,  fledged  with  might  of  sorrow  and 

mirth 
And  father's  fire  made  mortal  in  his  son. 
Nor  was  not  spirit  of  strength  in  blast  and  breeze 


€^l)alaflfs:iu0  283 

To  exalt  again  the  sun's  child  and  the  sea's  j 
For  as  wild  mares  in  Thessaly  grow  great 
With  child  of  ravishing  winds,  that  violate 
Their  leaping  length  of  limb  with  manes  like  fire 
And  eyes  outburning  heaven's 
With  fires  more  violent  than  the  lightning  levin's 
And  breath  drained  out  and  desperate  of  desire, 
Even  so  the   spirit  in  him,  when  winds  grew 

strong. 
Grew  great  with  child  of  song. 
Nor  less  than  when  his  veins  first  leapt  for  joy 
To  draw  delight  in  such  as  burns  a  boy, 
Now  too  the  soul  of  all  his  senses  felt 
The  passionate  pride  of  deep  sea-pulses  dealt 
Through  nerve  and  jubilant  vein 
As  from  the  love  and  largess  of  old  time, 
And  with  his  heart  again 
The  tidal  throb  of  all  the  tides  keep  rhyme 
And  charm  him   from  his  own  soul's  separate 

sense 
With  infinite  and  invasive  influence 
That  made  strength  sweet  in  him  and  sweetness 

strong, 
Being  now  no  more  a  singer,  but  a  song. 

Till  one  clear  day  when  brighter  sea-wind 
blew 
And  louder  sea-shine  lightened,  for  the  waves 


284     Select  potma  of  ^tDtnbume 


1 


Were  full  of  godhead  and  the  light  that  saves, 
His  father's,  and  their  spirit  had   pierced  him 

through, 
He  felt  strange  breath  and  light  all  round  him 

shed 
That  bowed  him  down  with  rapture;  and  he 

knew 
His  father's  hand,  hallowing  his  humbled  head. 
And  the  old  great  voice   of  the  old  good  time, 

that  said  : 

*'  Child  of  my  sunlight  and  the  sea,  from  birth 

A  fosterling  and  fugitive  on  earth  ; 

Sleepless  of  soul  as  wind  or  wave  or  fire, 

A  manchild  with  an  ungrown  God's  desire  ; 

Because  thou  hast  loved  nought  mortal  more 
than  me, 

Thy  father,  and  thy  mother-hearted  sea ; 

Because  thou  hast  set  thine  heart  to  sing,  and 
sold 

Life  and  life's  love  for  song,  God's  living  gold ; 

Because  thou  hast  given  thy  flower  and  fire  of 
youth 

To  feed  men's  hearts  with  visions,  truer  than 
truth ; 

Because  thou  hast  kept  in  those  world-wander- 
ing eyes 

The  light  that  makes  me  music  of  the  skies ; 


Sihitux  a  ^parie  ^tuarc  285 

Because  thou  hast  heard  with  world-unwearied 

ears 
The  music  that  puts  light  into  the  spheres  ; 
Have  therefore  in  thine  heart  and  in  thy  mouth 
The  sound  of  song  that  mingles  north  and  south, 
The  song  of  all  the  winds  that  sing  of  me, 
And  in  thy  soul  the  sense  of  all  the  sea." 

ADIEUX   A   MARIE   STUART 

I 
Queen,  for  whose  house  my  fathers  fought, 

With  hopes  that  rose  and  fell. 
Red  star  of  boyhood's  fiery  thought, 

Farewell. 

They  gave  their  lives,  and  I,  my  queen, 

Have  given  you  of  my  life. 
Seeing  your  brave  star  burn  high  between 

Men's  strife. 

The  strife  that  lightened  round  their  spears 
Long  since  fell  still  :   so  long 

Hardly  may  hope  to  last  in  years 
My  song. 

But  still  through  strife  of  time  and  thought 
Your  light  on  me  too  fell : 


286      Select  IDoems;  of  ^toinbume 

Queen,  in  whose  name  we  sang  or  fought, 
Farewell. 

II 

There  beats  no  heart  on  either  border 

Wherethrough  the  north  blasts  blow 

But  keeps  your  memory  as  a  warder 
His  beacon-fire  aglow. 

Long  since  it  fired  with  love  and  wonder 

Mine,  for  whose  April  age 
Blithe  midsummer  made  banquet  under 

The  shade  of  Hermitage. 

Soft  sang  the  burn's  blithe  notes,  that  gather 

Strength  to  ring  true  : 
And  air  and  trees  and  sun  and  heather 

Remembered  you. 

Old  border  ghosts  of  fight  or  fairy 

Or  love  or  teen. 
These  they  forget,  remembering  Mary 

The  Queen. 


Ill 


Queen  once  of  Scots  and  ever  of  ours 
Whose  sires  brought  forth  for  you 

Their  lives  to  strew  your  way  like  flowers, 
Adieu. 


I 


^nitux  a  ^arie  Stuart  287 

Dead  is  full  many  a  dead  man's  name 
Who  died  for  you  this  long 

Time  past  :   shall  this  too  fare  the  same, 
My  song  ? 

But  surely,  though  it  die  or  live, 

Your  face  was  worth 
All  that  a  man  may  think  to  give 

On  earth. 

No  darkness  cast  of  years  between 

Can  darken  you  : 
Man's  love  will  never  bid  my  queen 

Adieu. 

IV 

Love  hangs  like  light  about  your  name 

As  music  round  the  shell  : 
No  heart  can  take  of  you  a  tame 

Farewell. 

Yet,  when  your  very  face  was  seen, 
111  gifts  were  yours  for  giving : 

Love  gat  strange  guerdons  of  my  queen 
When  living. 

O  diamond  heart  unflawed  and  clear, 

The  whole  world's  crowning  jewel ! 


288      Select  potms  of  §)toinbumr 

Was  ever  heart  so  deadly  dear 
So  cruel  ? 

Yet  none  for  you  of  all  that  bled 

Grudged  once  one  drop  that  fell : 

Not  one  to  life  reluctant  said 
Farewell. 


Strange  love  they  have  given  you,  love  dis- 
loyal, 

Who  mock  with  praise  your  name, 
To  leave  a  head  so  rare  and  royal 

Too  low  for  praise  or  blame. 

You  could  not  love  nor  hate,  they  tell  us, 
You  had  nor  sense  nor  sting  : 

In  God's  name,  then,  what  plague  befell  us 
To  fight  for  such  a  thing  ? 

"  Some  faults  the  gods  will  give,"  to  fetter 
Man's  highest  intent : 
But  surely  you  were  something  better 
Than  innocent ! 

No  maid  that  strays  with  steps  unwary 

Through  snares  unseen, 
But  one  to  live  and  die  for ;  Mary, 

The  Queen. 


^Uieur  ^  sparie  Stuart  289 

VI 

Forgive  them  all  their  praise,  who  blot 
Your  fame  with  praise  of  you  : 

Then  love  may  say,  and  falter  not, 
Adieu. 

Yet  some  you  hardly  would  forgive 
Who  did  you  much  less  wrong 

Once  :   but  resentment  should  not  live 
Too  long. 

They  never  saw  your  lips'  bright  bow, 

Your  swordbright  eyes, 
The  bluest  of  heavenly  things  below 

The  skies. 

Clear  eyes  that  love's  self  finds  most  like 

A  swordblade's  blue, 
A  swordblade's  ever  keen  to  strike, 

Adieu. 

VII 

Though  all  things  breathe  a  sound  of  fight 
That  yet  make  up  your  spell. 

To  bid  you  were  to  bid  the  light 
Farewell. 


290     Select  ponnflf  of  ^toinburne 

Farewell  the  song  says  only,  being 

A  star  whose  race  is  run  : 
Farewell  the  soul  says  never,  seeing 

The  sun. 

Yet,  wellnigh  as  with  flash  of  tears, 
The  song  must  say  but  so 

That  took  your  praise  up  twenty  years 
Ago. 

More  bright  than  stars  or  moons  that  vary. 
Sun  kindling  heaven  and  hell. 

Here,  after  all  these  years,  Queen  Mary, 
Farewell. 


ON  A  COUNTRY   ROAD 

Along  these  low  pleached  lanes,  on  such  a  day, 
So  soft  a  day  as  this,  through  shade  and  sun. 
With  glad  grave  eyes  that  scanned  the  glad  wild 

way. 
And  heart  still  hovering  o'er  a  song  begun, 
And  smile  that  warmed  the  world  with  benison. 
Our  father,  lord  long  since  of  lordly  rhyme. 
Long  since  hath  haply  ridden,  when  the  lime 
Bloomed  broad    above  him,  flowering  where  he 

came. 


<©n  a  Country  HoaO  291 

Because  thy  passage  once  made  warm  this  ciime, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

Each  year  that  England  clothes  herself  with  May, 
She  takes  thy  likeness  on  her.    Time  hath  spun 
Fresh  raiment  all  in  vain  and  strange  array 
For  earth  and  man's  new  spirit,  fain  to  shun 
Things  past  for  dreams  of  better  to  be  won. 
Through  many  a  century  since  thy  funeral  chime 
Rang,  and  men  deemed  it  death's   most  direful 

crime 
To  have  spared  not  thee  for  very  love  or  shame ; 
And  yet,  while  mists  round  last  year's  memories 

climb. 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

Each  turn   of  the   old   wild   road   whereon   we 

stray, 
Meseems,  might  bring  us  face  to   face  with  one 
Whom  seeing  we  could  not  but  give  thanks,  and 

pray 
For  England's  love  our  father  and  her  son 
To  speak  with  us  as  once  in  days  long  done 
With  all  men,  sage  and  churl   and   monk  and 

mime. 
Who  knew  not  as  we  know  the  soul  sublime 
That  sang  for  song's  love  more  than   lust  of 

fame. 


292     Select  poems  of  ^tDinburne 

Yet,  though  this  be  not,  yet,  in  happy  time, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 

Friend,  even  as  bees  about  the  flowering  thyme. 
Years  crowd  on  years,  till  hoar  decay  begrime 
Names  once  beloved  ;  but,  seeing  the  sun  the 

same. 
As  birds  of  autumn  fain  to  praise  the  prime, 
Our  father  Chaucer,  here  we  praise  thy  name. 


IN   THE    BAY 

I 

Beyond  the  hollow  sunset,  ere  a  star 

Take  heart  in  heaven  from  eastward,  while  the 

west. 
Fulfilled  of  watery  resonance  and  rest. 
Is  as  a  port  with  clouds  for  harbour  bar 
To  fold  the  fleet  in  of  the  winds  from  far 
That   stir   no   plume   now   of  the   bland   sea's 

breast  ; 

II 

Above  the  soft  sweep  of  the  breathless  bay 
Southwestward,  far  past  flight  of  night  and  day. 
Lower  than  the  sunken  sunset  sinks,  and  higher 
Than  dawn  can  freak  the  front  of  heaven  with 
fire. 


3(In  tlje  Wnv  293 

My  thought  with  eyes  and  wings  made  wide 

makes  way 
To  find  the  place  of  souls  that  I  desire. 

Ill 

If  any  place  for  any  soul  there  be, 
Disrobed  and  disentrammelled  ;  if  the  might, 
The  fire  and  force  that  filled  with  ardent  light 
The  souls  whose  shadow  is  half  the  light  we 

see, 
Survive  and  be  suppressed  not  of  the  night  ; 
This  hour  should  show  what  all  day  hid   from 

me. 

IV 

Night  knows  not,  neither  is  it  shown  to-day, 
By  sunlight  nor  by  starlight  is  it  shown, 
Nor  to  the  full  moon's  eye  nor  footfall  known, 
Their  world's  untrodden  and  unkindled  way. 
Nor  is  the  breath  nor  music  of  it  blown 
With  sounds  of  winter  or  with  winds  of  May. 


But  here,  where  light  and  darkness  reconciled 
Hold  earth  between  them  as  a  weanling  child 
Between  the  balanced  hands  of  death  and  birth. 
Even    as    they    held    the    new-born     shape    of 
earth 


294     Select  l^otm&  of  ^tDinbunre 

When  first  life  trembled  in  her  limbs  and  smiled, 
Here  hope  might  think  to  find  what  hope  were 
worth. 

VI 

Past  Hades,  past  Elysium,  past  the  long 

Slow  smooth  strong  lapse  of  Lethe  —  past  the  toil 

Wherein  all  souls  are  taken  as  a  spoil, 

The  Stygian  web  of  waters  —  if  your  song 

Be  quenched  not,  O  our  brethren,  but  be  strong 

As  ere  ye  too  shook  off  our  temporal  coil  ; 

VII 

If  yet  these  twain  survive  your  worldly  breath, 
Joy  trampling  sorrow,  life  devouring  death, 
If  perfect  life  possess  your  life  all  through 
And  like  your  words  your  souls  be  deathless  too, 
To-night,  of  all  whom  night  encompasseth. 
My  soul  would  commune  with  one  soul  of  you. 

VIII 

Above  the  sunset  might  I  see  thine  eyes 
That  were  above  the  sundawn  in  our  skies. 
Son  of  the  songs  of  morning,  —  thine  that  were 
First  lights  to  lighten  that  rekindling  air 
Wherethrough  men  saw  the  front  of  England 

rise 
And  heard  thine  loudest  of  the  lyre-notes  there — 


ifln  c^e  515a^  295 

IX 

If  yet  thy  fire  have  not  one  spark  the  less, 
O  Titan,  born  of  her  a  Titaness, 
Across  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset's  mark 
Send  of  thy  lyre  one  sound,  thy  fire  one  spark, 
To  change  this  face  of  our  unworthiness, 
Across  this  hour  dividing  light  from  dark. 


To  change  this  face  of  our  chill  time,  that  hears 
No  song  like  thine  of  all  that  crowd  its  ears. 
Of  all  its  lights  that  lighten  all  day  long 
Sees  none  like  thy  most  fleet  and  fiery  sphere's 
Outlightening  Sirius  —  in  its  twilight  throng 
No  thunder  and  no  sunrise  like  thy  song. 

XI 

Hath  not  the  sea-wind  swept  the  sea-line  bare 
To  pave  with  stainless  fire  through  stainless  air 
A  passage  for  thine  heavenlier  feet  to  tread 
Ungrieved  of  earthly  floor-work  ?  hath  it  spread 
No  covering  splendid  as  the  sun-god's  hair 
To  veil  or  to  reveal  thy  lordlier  head  ? 

XII 

Hath  not  the  sunset  strewn  across  the  sea 
A  way  majestical  enough  for  thee  ? 


296      g>elect  JDoemsf  of  ^toinbunte 

What  hour  save  this  should  be  thine  hour  — 

and  mine, 
If  thou  have  care  of  any  less  divine 
Than  thine  own  soul ;  if  thou  take  thought  of  me, 
Marlowe,  as  all  my  soul  takes  thought  of  thine  ? 

XIII 

Before  the  moon's  face  as  before  the  sun 
The  morning  star  and  evening  star  are  one 
For  all  men's  lands  as  England.    O,  if  night 
Hang  hard  upon  us,  —  ere  our  day  take  flight, 
Shed  thou  some  comfort  from  thy  day  long  done 
On  us  pale  children  of  the  latter  light ! 

XIV 

For  surely,  brother  and   master  and  lord  and 

king. 
Where'er  thy  footfall  and  thy  face  make  spring 
In  all  souls'  eyes  that  meet  thee  wheresoe'er. 
And  have  thy  soul  for  sunshine  and  sweet  air  — 
Some  late  love  of  thine  old  live  land  should  cling. 
Some  living  love  of  England,  round  thee  there. 

XV 

Here  from  her  shore  across  her  sunniest  sea 
My  soul  makes  question  of  the  sun  for  thee. 
And  waves  and  beams  make  answer.    When  thy 
feet 


I 


4 


31n  t\)t  115a^  297 

Made  her  ways  flowerier  and  their  flowers  more 

sweet 
With  childlike  passage  of  a  god  to  be, 
Like  spray  these  waves  cast  off  her  foemen's 

fleet. 

XVI 

Like  foam  they  flung  it  from  her,  and  like  weed 
Its  wrecks  were  washed  from  scornful  shoal  to 

shoal. 
From  rock  to  rock  reverberate ;  and  the  whole 
Sea  laughed  and  lightened  with  a  deathless  deed 
That  sowed  our  enemies  in  her  field  for  seed 
And  made  her  shores  fit  harbourage  for  thy  soul. 

XVII 

Then  in  her  green  south  fields,  a  poor  man's 

child. 
Thou  hadst  thy  short  sweet  fill  of  half-blown 

joy. 

That  ripens  all  of  us  for  time  to  cloy 
With  full-blown  pain  and  passion ;  ere  the  wild 
World  caught  thee  by  the  fiery  heart,  and  smiled 
To  make  so  swift  end  of  the  godlike  boy. 

XVIII 

For  thou,  if  ever  godlike  foot  there  trod 
These  fields  of  ours,  wert  surely  like  a  god. 


298     Select  poem0  of  ^tDinbume 

Who  knows  what  splendour  of  strange  dreams 

was  shed 
With  sacred  shadow  and  glimmer  of  gold  and  red 
From  hallowed  windows,  over  stone  and  sod, 
On  thine  unbowed  bright  insubmissive  head  ? 

XIX 

The  shadow  stayed  not,  but  the  splendour  stays. 
Our  brother,  till  the  last  of  English  days. 
No  day  nor  night  on  English  earth  shall  be 
For  ever,  spring  nor  summer,  Junes  nor  Mays, 
But  somewhat  as  a  sound  or  gleam  of  thee 
Shall  come  on  us  like  morning  from  the  sea. 


I 
I 


XX 

Like  sunrise  never  wholly  risen,  nor  yet 
Quenched ;  or  like  sunset  never  wholly  set, 
A  light  to  lighten  as  from  living  eyes 
The  cold  unlit  close  lids  of  one  that  lies 
Dead,  or  a  ray  returned  from  death's  far  skies 
To  fire  us  living  lest  our  lives  forget. 

XXI 

For  in  that  heaven  what  light  of  lights  may  be. 
What  splendour  of  what  stars,  what  spheres  of 

flame 
Sounding,  that  none  may  number  nor  may  name, 
We  know  not,  even  thy  brethren ;  yea,  not  we 


1 


31n  t^t  115a^  299 

Whose  eyes  desire  the  light  that  lightened  thee, 
Whose   ways  and  thine  are  one  way  and  the 
same. 

XXII 

But  if  the  riddles  that  in  sleep  we  read, 
And  trust  them  not,  be  flattering  truth  indeed, 
As  he  that  rose  our  mightiest  called  them,  —  he, 
Much  higher  than  thou  as  thou   much   higher 

than  we  — 
There,  might  we  say,  all  flower  of  all  our  seed, 
All  singing  souls  are  as  one  sounding  sea. 

XXIII 

All  those  that  here  were  of  thy  kind  and  kin, 
Beside  thee  and  below  thee,  full  of  love, 
Full-souled  for  song,  — and  one  alone  above 
Whose  only  light  folds  all  your  glories  in  — 
With  all  birds'  notes  from  nightingale  to  dove 
Fill  the  world  whither  we  too  fain  would  win. 

XXIV 

The  world  that   sees  in   heaven   the  sovereign 

light 
Of  sunlike  Shakespeare,  and  the  fiery  night 
Whose   stars    were   watched   of  Webster ;  and 

beneath. 
The  twin-souled  brethren  of  the  single  wreath. 


300      Select  pomt0  of  ^iuinbume 

Grown  in  king's  gardens,  plucked  from  pastoral 

heath, 
Wrought  with  all  flowers  for  all  men's  hearts* 

delight. 

XXV 

And  that  fixed  fervour,  iron-red  like  Mars, 
In  the  mid  moving  tide  of  tenderer  stars, 
That  burned  on    loves   and   deeds  the  darkest 

done. 
Athwart  the    incestuous  prisoner's  bride-house 

bars  ; 
And  thine,  most  highest  of  all  their  fires  but  one. 
Our  morning  star,  sole  risen  before  the  sun. 

XXVI 

And  one  light  risen  since  theirs  to  run  such  race 
Thou   hast   seen,  O  Phosphor,  from  thy  pride 

of  place. 
Thou  hast  seen  Shelley,  him  that  was  to  thee 
As  light  to  fire  or  dawn  to  lightning;  me. 
Me  likewise,  O  our  brother,  shalt  thou  see, 
And  I  behold  thee,  face  to  glorious  face  ? 

XXVII 

You  twain  the    same    swift   year   of  manhood 

swept 
Down  the  steep  darkness,  and  our  father  wept. 


1 


31n  t\)t  ^a^  301 

And  from  the  gleam  of  Apollonian  tears 
A  holier  aureole  rounds  your  memories,  kept 
Most  fervent-fresh  of  all  the  singing  spheres, 
And   April-coloured    through    all    months    and 
years. 

XXVIII 

You  twain  fate  spared  not  half  your  fiery  span  ; 
The  longer  date  fulfils  the  lesser  man. 
Ye  from  beyond  the  dark  dividing  date 
Stand  smiling,  crowned  as  gods  with  foot  on  fate. 
For  stronger  was  your  blessing  than  his  ban, 
And  earliest  whom  he  struck,  he  struck  too  late. 

XXIX 

Yet  love  and  loathing,  faith  and  unfaith  yet 
Bind  less  to  greater  souls  in  unison, 
And  one  desire  that  makes  three  spirits  as  one 
Takes  great  and  small  as  in  one  spiritual  net 
Woven  out  of  hope  toward  what  shall  yet  be 

done 
Ere  hate  or  love  remember  or  forget. 

XXX 

Woven  out  of  faith  and  hope  and  love  too  great 
To  bear  the  bonds  of  life  and  death  and  fate : 
Woven  out  of  love  and  hope  and  faith  too  dear 
To  take  the  print  of  doubt  and  change  and  fear : 


302     Select  ^poents!  of  ^tombume 

And  interwoven  with  lines  of  wrath  and  hate 
Blood-red  with  soils  of  many  a  sanguine  year. 

XXXi 

Who  cannot  hate,  can  love  not ;  if  he  grieve. 
His  tears  are  barren  as  the  unfruitful  rain 
That  rears  no  harvest  from  the  green  sea's  plain, 
And  as  thorns  crackling  this  man's  laugh  is  vain. 
Nor  can  belief  touch,  kindle,  smite,  reprieve 
His  heart  who  has  not  heart  to  disbelieve. 

XXXII 

But  you,  most  perfect  in  your  hate  and  love, 
Our  great  twin-spirited  brethren  ;  you  that  stand 
Head  by  head  glittering,  hand  made  fast  in  hand, 
And  underfoot  the  fang-drawn  worm  that  strove 
To  wound  you  living ;  from  so  far  above. 
Look  love,  not  scorn,  on  ours  that  was  your 
land. 

XXXIII 

For  love  we  lack,  and  help  and  heat  and  light 
To  clothe  us  and  to  comfort  us  with  might. 
What  help  is  ours  to  take  or  give  ?  but  ye  — 
O,  more  than  sunrise  to  the  blind  cold  sea. 
That  wailed  aloud  with  all  her  waves  all  night, 
Much  more,  being  much  more  glorious,  should 
you  be. 


3lln  t\)t  Wa^  303 


XXXIV 

As  fire  to  frost,  as  ease  to  toil,  as  dew 

To  flowerless  fields,  as  sleep  to  slackening  pain, 

As  hope  to  souls  long  weaned  from  hope  again 

Returning,  or  as  blood  revived  anew 

To  dry-drawn  limbs  and  every  pulseless  vein, 

Even  so  toward  us  should  no  man  be  but  you. 

XXXV 

One  rose  before  the  sunrise  was,  and  one 
Before  the  sunset,  lovelier  than  the  sun. 
And  now  the  heaven  is  dark  and  bright  and  loud 
With  wind  and  starry  drift  and  moon  and  cloud, 
And  night's  cry  rings  in  straining  sheet  and  shroud. 
What  help  is  ours  if  hope  like  yours  be  none  ? 

XXXVI 

O  well-beloved,  our  brethren,  if  ye  be. 
Then  are  we  not  forsaken.    This  kind  earth 
Made  fragrant  once  for  all  time  with  your  birth. 
And  bright  for  all  men  with  your  love,  and  worth 
The  clasp  and  kiss  and  wedlock  of  the  sea. 
Were  not  your  mother  if  not  your  brethren  we. 

XXXVII 

Because  the  days  were  dark  with  gods  and  kings 
And  in  time's  hand  the  old  hours  of  time  as  rods, 


304      Select  :ponn£f  of  ^toinbume 

When    force   and    fear   set    hope    and    faith   at 

odds, 
Ye   failed  not  nor  abased  your  plume-plucked 

wings ; 
And  we  that  front  not  more  disastrous  things, 
How  should  we  fail  in  face  of  kings  and  gods  ? 

XXXVIII 

P"or  now  the  deep  dense   plumes  of  night  are 

thinned 
Surely  with  winnowing  of  the  glimmering  wind 
Whose  feet  are  fledged  with  morning;  and  the 

breath 
Begins  in  heaven  that  sings  the  dark  to  death. 
And  all  the   night   wherein   men   groaned   and 

sinned 
Sickens  at  heart  to  hear  what  sundawn  saith. 

XXXIX 

O  first-born  sons  of  hope  and  fairest,  ye 
Whose  prows  first  clove  the  thought-unsounded 

sea 
Whence   all   the   dark   dead    centuries   rose   to 

bar 
The  spirit  of  man  lest  truth   should   make  him 

free. 
The  sunrise  and  the  sunset,  seeing  one  star. 
Take  heart  as  we  to  know  you  that  ye  are. 


31n  ^emor^  of  Maker  ^atiage  tlanoor  305 

XL 

Ye  rise  not  and  ye  set  not ;  we  that  say 
Ye  rise  and  set  like  hopes  that  set  and  rise 
Look  yet  but  seaward  from  a  land-locked  bay ; 
But  where  at  last  the  sea's  line  is  the  sky's 
And  truth  and  hope  one  sunlight  in  your  eyes, 
No  sunrise  and  no  sunset  marks  their  day. 


IN   MEMORY  OF  WALTER   SAVAGE 
LANDOR 

Back  to  the  flower-town,  side  by  side, 

The  bright  months  bring, 
New-born,  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride, 

Freedom  and  spring. 

The  sweet  land  laughs  from  sea  to  sea. 

Filled  full  of  sun; 
A.11  things  come  back  to  her,  being  free ; 

All  things  but  one. 

In  many  a  tender  wheaten  plot 

Flowers  that  were  dead 
Live,  and  old  suns  revive ;    but  not 

That  holier  head. 


3o6     Select  |Boem0  of  ^fioinbume 

By  this  white  wandering  waste  of  sea, 

Far  north,  I  hear 
One  face  shall  never  turn  to  me 

As  once  this  year  : 

Shall  never  smile  and  turn  and  rest 

On  mine  as  there. 
Nor  one  most  sacred  hand  be  prest 

Upon  my  hair. 

I  came  as  one  whose  thoughts  half  linger, 

Half  run  before ; 
The  youngest  to  the  oldest  singer 

That  England  bore. 

I  found  him  whom  I  shall  not  find 

Till  all  grief  end. 
In  holiest  age  our  mightiest  mind, 

Father  and  friend. 

But  thou,  if  any  thing  endure. 

If  hope  there  be, 
O  spirit  that  man's  life  left  pure, 

Man's  death  set  free. 

Not  with  disdain  of  days  that  were 

Look  earthward  now  ; 
Let  dreams  revive  the  reverend  hair, 

The  imperial  brow; 


tEo  ©ictor  l^ugo  307 

Come  back  in  sleep,  for  in  the  life 

Where  thou  art  not 
We  find  none  like  thee.    Time  and  strife 

And  the  world's  lot 

Move  thee  no  more ;  but  love  at  least 

And  reverent  heart 
May  move  thee,  royal  and  released, 

Soul,  as  thou  art. 

And  thou,  his  Florence,  to  thy  trust 

Receive  and  keep, 
Keep  safe  his  dedicated  dust, 

His  sacred  sleep. 

So  shall  thy  lovers,  come  from  far, 

Mix  with  thy  name 
As  morning-star  with  evening-star 

His  faultless  fame. 


TO   VICTOR   HUGO 

In  the  fair  days  when  God 
By  man  as  godlike  trod, 
And  each  alike  was  Greek,  alike  was  free, 
God's  lightning  spared,  they  said. 
Alone  the  happier  head 


3o8      Select  poemsf  of  ^toinbume 

Whose  laurels  screened  it ;  fruitless  grace  for 
thee, 
To  whom  the  high  gods  gave  of  right 
Their  thunders  and  their  laurels  and  their  light. 

Sunbeams  and  bays  before 

Our  master's  servants  wore, 
For  these  Apollo  left  in  all  men's  lands ; 

But  far  from  these  ere  now 

And  watched  with  jealous  brow 
Lay  the  blind  lightnings  shut  between    God's 
hands. 

And  only  loosed  on  slaves  and  kings 
The  terror  of  the  tempest  of  their  wings. 

Born  in  those  younger  years 

That  shone  with  storms  of  spears 
And  shook   in    the   wind   blown    from   a   dead 
world's  pyre, 

When  by  her  back-blown  hair 

Napoleon  caught  the  fair 
And  fierce  Republic  with  her  feet  of  fire. 

And  stayed  with  iron  words  and  hands 
Her  flight,  and  freedom  in  a  thousand  lands : 

Thou  sawest  the  tides  of  things 
Close  over  heads  of  kings, 
And  thine  hand  felt  the  thunder,  and  to  thee 


tBo  ^aictor  l^ugo  309 

Laurels  and  lightnings  were 

As  sunbeams  and  soft  air 
Mixed  each  in  other,  or  as  mist  with  sea 

Mixed,  or  as  memory  with  desire. 
Or  the  lute's  pulses  with  the  louder  lyre. 

For  thee  man's  spirit  stood 

Disrobed  of  flesh  and  blood, 
And  bare  the  heart  of  the  most  secret  hours ; 

And  to  thine  hand  more  tame 

Than  birds  in  winter  came 
High  hopes  and  unknown  flying  forms  of  powers, 

And  from  thy  table  fed,  and  sang 
Till  with  the  tune  men's  ears  took  fire  and  rang. 

Even  all  men's  eyes  and  ears 

With  fiery  sound  and  tears 
Waxed  hot,  and  cheeks  caught  flame  and  eye- 
lids light. 

At  those  high  songs  of  thine 

That  stung  the  sense  like  wine. 
Or  fell  more  soft  than  dew  or  snow  by  night, 

Or  wailed  as  in  some  flooded  cave 
Sobs  the  strong  broken  spirit  of  a  wave. 

But  we,  our  master,  we 
Whose  hearts,  uplift  to  thee. 
Ache  with  the  pulse  of  thy  remembered  song, 


3 1  o     Select  ^ipoems:  of  ^iombume 

We  ask  not  nor  await 

From  the  clenched  hands  of  fate, 

As  thou,  remission  of  the  world's  old  wrong ; 
Respite  we  ask  not,  nor  release ; 

Freedom  a  man  may  have,  he  shall  not  peace. 

Though  thy  most  fiery  hope 

Storm  heaven,  to  set  wide  ope 
The  all-sought-for  gate  whence  God  or  Chance 
debars 

All  feet  of  men,  all  eyes  — 

The  old  night  resumes  her  skies, 
Her  hollow  hiding-place  of  clouds  and  stars. 

Where  naught  save  these  is  sure  in  sight ; 
And,  paven  with  death,  our  days  are  roofed  with 
night. 

One  thing  we  can  ;  to  be 

Awhile,  as  men  may,  free  ; 
But  not  by  hope  or  pleasure  the  most  stern 

Goddess,  most  awful-eyed. 

Sits,  but  on  either  side 
Sit  sorrow  and  the  wrath  of  hearts  that  burn, 

Sad  faith  that  cannot  hope  or  fear. 
And  memory  grey  with  many  a  flowerless  year. 

Not  that  in  stranger's  wise 
I  lift  not  loving  eyes 


tETo  ©ictor  J^ugo  311 

To  the  fair  foster-mother  France,  that  gave 

Beyond  the  pale  fleet  foam 

Help  to  my  sires  and  home, 
Whose  great  sweet   breast  could  shelter  those 
and  save 

Whom  from  her  nursing  breasts  and  hands 
Their  land  cast  forth  of  old  on  gentler  lands. 

Not  without  thoughts  that  ache 

For  theirs  and  for  thy  sake, 
I,  born  of  exiles,  hail  thy  banished  head  ; 

I,  whose  young  song  took  flight 

Toward  the  great  heat  and  light, 
On  me  a  child  from  thy  far  splendour  shed. 

From  thine  high  place  of  soul  and  song. 
Which,  fallen  on  eyes  yet  feeble,  made  them  strong. 

Ah,  not  with  lessening  love 

For  memories  born  hereof, 
I  look  to  that  sweet  mother-land,  and  see 

The  old  fields  and  fair  full  streams, 

And  skies,  but  fled  like  dreams 
The  feet  of  freedom  and  the  thought  of  thee ; 

And  all  between  the  skies  and  graves 
The  mirth  of  mockers  and  the  shame  of  slaves. 

She,  killed  with  noisome  air, 
Even  she !  and  still  so  fair. 


3 1 2      ^eUct  :[poetns(  of  ^tomburne 

Who  said, "  Let  there  be  freedom,"  and  there  was 

Freedom  ;  and  as  a  lance 

The  fiery  eyes  of  France 
Touched  the  world's  sleep  and  as  a  sleep  made 
pass 

Forth  of  men's  heavier  ears  and  eyes 
Smitten  with  fire  and  thunder  from  new  skies. 

Are  they  men's  friends  indeed 
Who  watch  them  weep  and  bleed  ? 

Because  thou  hast  loved  us,  shall  the  gods  love 
thee  ? 
Thou,  first  of  men  and  friend, 
Seest  thou,  even  thou,  the  end  ? 

Thou  knowest  what  hath  been,  knowest  thou 
what  shall  be  ? 
Evils  may  pass  and  hopes  endure ; 

But  fate  is  dim,  and  all  the  gods  obscure. 

O  nursed  in  airs  apart, 

O  poet  highest  of  heart. 
Hast   thou  seen   time,  who  hast  seen  so  many 
things  ? 

Are  not  the  years  more  wise. 

More  sad  than  keenest  eyes. 
The  years  with  soundless  feet  and  sounding  wings  ? 

Passing  we  hear  them  not,  but  past 
The  clamour  of  them  thrills  us,  and  their  blast. 


So  i^ictor  l^ugo  313 

Thou  art  chief  of  us,  and  lord  ; 

Thy  song  is  as  a  sword 
Keen-edged  and  scented  in  the  blade  from  flow- 
ers; 

Thou  art  lord  and  king;  but  we 

Lift  younger  eyes,  and  see 
Less   of   high    hope,   less    light    on    wandering 
hours  ; 

Hours  that  have  borne  men  down  so  long, 
Seen  the  right  fail,  and  watched  uplift  the  wrong. 

But  thine  imperial  soul, 

As  years  and  ruins  roll 
To  the  same  end,  and  all  things  and  all  dreams 

With  the  same  wreck  and  roar 

Drift  on  the  dim  same  shore, 
Still  in  the  bitter  foam  and  brackish  streams 

Tracks  the  fresh  water-spring  to  be 
And  sudden  sweeter  fountains  in  the  sea. 

As  once  the  high  God  bound 

With  many  a  rivet  round 
Man's  saviour,  and  with  iron  nailed  him  through, 

At  the  wild  end  of  things. 

Where  even  his  own  bird's  wings 
Flagged,  whence  the  sea  shone  like  a  drop  of  dew, 

From  Caucasus  beheld  below 
Past  fathoms  of  unfathomable  snow  ; 


314     Select  ponnflf  of  ^fcombume 

So  the  strong  God,  the  chance 

Central  of  circumstance, 
Still  shows  him  exile  who  will  not  be  slave; 

All  thy  great  fame  and  thee 

Girt  by  the  dim  strait  sea 
With  multitudinous  walls  of  wandering  wave  ; 

Shows  us  our  greatest  from  his  throne 
Fate-stricken,  and  rejected  of  his  own. 

Yea,  he  is  strong,  thou  say'st, 

A  mystery  many-faced, 
The  wild  beasts  know  him  and  the  wild  birds 
flee. 

The  blind  night  sees  him,  death 

Shrinks  beaten  at  his  breath. 
And  his  right  hand  is  heavy  on  the  sea : 

We  know  he  hath  made  us,  and  is  king  i       m 
We  know  not  if  he  care  for  any  thing.  W 

Thus  much,  no  more,  we  know ; 

He  bade  what  is  be  so,  m 

Bade    light    be    and    bade    night    be,    one    by 
one  J 

Bade  hope  and  fear,  bade  ill 

And  good  redeem  and  kill. 
Till  all  men  be  aweary  of  the  sun 

And  his  world  burn  in  its  own  flame 
And  bear  no  witness  longer  of  his  name. 


(ITo  ©ictor  l^ugo  315 

Yet  though  all  this  be  thus, 

Be  those  men  praised  of  us 
Who  have  loved  and  wrought  and  sorrowed  and 
not  sinned 

For  fame  or  fear  or  gold, 

Nor  waxed  for  winter  cold, 
Nor  changed  for  changes  of  the  worldly  wind ; 

Praised  above  men  of  men  be  these, 
Till  this  one  world  and  work  we  know  shall 
cease. 

Yea,  one  thing  more  than  this. 

We  know  that  one  thing  is. 
The  splendour  of  a  spirit  without  blame, 

That  not  the  labouring  years 

Blind-born,  nor  any  fears. 
Nor  men  nor  any  gods  can  tire  or  tame ; 

But  purer  power  with  fiery  breath 
Fills,  and  exalts  above  the  gulfs  of  death. 

Praised  above  men  be  thou. 

Whose  laurel-laden  brow. 
Made  for  the  morning,  droops  not  in  the  night ; 

Praised  and  beloved,  that  none 

Of  all  thy  great  things  done 
Flies  higher  than  thy  most  equal  spirit's  flight ; 

Praised,  that  nor  doubt  nor  hope  could  bend 
Earth's  loftiest  head,  found  upright  to  the  end. 


31 6     Select  l^otms  of  ^iainhmm 

AVE    ATQUE   VALE 

IN    MEMORY    OF    CHARLES    BAUDELAIRE 

Nous  devrions  pourtant  lui  porter  quelques  fleurs ; 
Les  morts,  les  pauvres  morts,  ont  de  grandes  douleurs, 
Et  quand  Octobre  souffle,  emondeur  des  vieux  arbres, 
Son  vent  melancolique  a  I'entour  de  leurs  marbres, 
Certe,  ils  doivent  trouver  les  vivants  bien  ingrats. 

Les  Fleurs  du  Mai. 

I 

Shall  I  strew  on  thee  rose  or  rue  or  laurel, 

Brother,  on  this  that  was  the  veil  of  thee  ? 
Or  quiet  sea-flower  moulded  by  the  sea. 

Or  simplest  growth  of  meadow-sweet  or  sorrel, 
Such  as  the  summer-sleepy  Dryads  weave, 
Waked   up  by  snow-soft  sudden  rains  at 
eve  ? 

Or  wilt  thou  rather,  as  on  earth  before. 

Half-faded  fiery  blossoms,  pale  with  heat 
And  full  of  bitter  summer,  but  more  sweet 

To  thee  than  gleanings  of  a  northern  shore 
Trod  by  no  tropic  feet  ? 

II 

For  always  thee  the  fervid  languid  glories 

Allured  of  heavier  suns  in  mightier  skies  ; 
Thine  ears  knew  all  the  wandering  watery 
sighs. 


aibe  atque  ©ale  317 

Where  the  sea  sobs  round  Lesbian  promontories, 
The  barren  kiss  of  piteous  wave  to  wave 
That  knows  not  where  is  that  Leucadian 
grave 

Which  hides  too  deep  the  supreme  head  of  song. 
Ah,  salt  and  sterile  as  her  kisses  were, 
The  wild  sea  winds  her  and  the  green  gulfs 
bear 

Hither  and  thither,  and  vex  and  work  her  wrong. 
Blind  gods  that  cannot  spare. 

Ill 

Thou    sawest,    in     thine    old    singing    season, 
brother, 
Secrets  and  sorrows  unbeheld  of  us  : 
Fierce  loves,  and  lovely  leaf-buds  poison- 
ous. 
Bare  to  thy  subtler  eye,  but  for  none  other 

Blowing   by  night  in    some  unbreathed-in 

clime ; 
The  hidden  harvest  of  luxurious  time. 
Sin  without  shape,  and  pleasure  without  speech  ; 
And  where  strange  dreams  in  a  tumultuous 

sleep 
Make  the  shut  eyes  of  stricken  spirits  weep  ; 
And  with  each  face  thou  sawest  the  shadow  on 
each. 
Seeing  as  men  sow  men  reap. 


3 1 8     ^elrct  ponnjf  of  ^toinbume 

IV 

O  sleepless  heart  and  sombre  soul  unsleeping, 

That  were  athirst  for  sleep  and  no  more 
life 

And  no  more  love,  for  peace  and  no  more 
strife ! 
Now  the  dim  gods  of  death  have  in  their  keeping 

Spirit  and  body  and  all  the  springs  of  song. 

Is  it  well  now  where  love  can  do  no  wrong. 
Where  stingless  pleasure  has  no  foam  or  fang 

Behind  the  unopening  closure  of  her  lips  ? 

Is  it  not  well  where  soul  from  body  slips 
And  flesh  from  bone  divides  without  a  pang 

As  dew  from  flower-bell  drips  ? 

V 

It  is  enough ;  the  end  and  the  beginning 

Are  one  thing  to  thee,  who  art  past  the 

end. 
O  hand  unclasped  of  unbeholden  friend. 

For  thee  no  fruits  to  pluck,  no  palms  for  win- 
ning. 
No  triumph  and  no  labour  and  no  lust. 
Only  dead  yew-leaves  and  a  little  dust. 

O  quiet  eyes  wherein  the  light  saith  nought. 
Whereto  the  day  is  dumb,  nor  any  night 
With  obscure  finger  silences  your  sight. 


atjr  atque  W^it  319 

For   in    your    speech    the    sudden  soul   speaks 
thought. 
Sleep,  and  have  sleep  for  light. 

VI 

Now  all  strange  hours  and  all  strange  loves  are 
over, 
Dreams  and  desires  and  sombre  songs  and 

sweet. 
Hast  thou   found  place  at  the  great  knees 
and  feet. 
Of  some  pale  Titan-woman  like  a  lover, 
Such  as  thy  vision  here  solicited. 
Under  the  shadow  of  her  fair  vast  head, 
The  deep  division  of  prodigious  breasts. 

The  solemn  slope  of  mighty  limbs  asleep, 
The    weight    of   awful    tresses    that    still 
keep 
The  savour  and  shade  of  old-world  pine-forests 
Where  the  wet  hill-winds  weep  ? 

VII 

Hast  thou  found  any  likeness  for  thy  vision  ? 
O  gardener  of  strange  flowers,  what  bud, 

what  bloom, 
Hast  thou   found  sown,  what  gathered  in 
the  gloom  ? 
What  of  despair,  of  rapture,  of  derision, 


320      Select  ^otm&  of  ^tDinbume 

What    of    life    is    there,    what    of   ill    or 
good  ? 

Are  the  fruits  grey  like  dust  or  bright  like 
blood  ? 
Does  the  dim  ground  grow  any  seed  of  ours, 

The  faint  fields  quicken  any  terrene  root. 

In  low  lands  where  the  sun  and  moon  are 
mute 
And  all  the  stars  keep  silence  ?    Are  there  flow- 
ers 

At  all,  or  any  fruit  ? 

VIII 

Alas,  but  though  my  flying  song  flies  after, 

O   sweet    strange    elder   singer,  thy  more 

fleet 
Singing,  and  footprints  of  thy  fleeter  feet. 
Some  dim  derision  of  mysterious  laughter 

From  the  blind  tongueless  warders  of  the 

dead. 
Some    gainless    glimpse    of    Proserpine's 
veiled  head, 
Some  little  sound  of  unregarded  tears 
Wept  by  effaced  unprofitable  eyes. 
And   from   pale  mouths   some  cadence  of 
dead  sighs  — 
These  only,  these  the  hearkening  spirit  hears. 
Sees  only  such  things  rise. 


ate  atque  ©ale  321 

IX 

Thou  art  far  too  far  for  wings  of  words  to  follow, 

Far  too  far  off  for  thought  or  any  prayer. 

What  ails  us  with  thee,  who  art  wind  and  air? 
What  ails  us  gazing  where  all  seen  is  hollow  ? 

Yet  with  some  fancy,  yet  with  some  desire, 

Dreams  pursue  death  as  winds  a  flying  fire, 
Our  dreams  pursue  our  dead  and  do  not  find. 

Still,  and    more   swift  than  they,  the  thin 
flame  flies. 

The  low  light  fails  us  in  elusive  skies. 
Still  the  foiled  earnest  ear  is  deaf,  and  blind 

Are  still  the  eluded  eyes. 


Not  thee,  O  never  thee,  in  all  time's  changes. 
Not  thee,  but  this  the  sound  of  thy  sad  soul, 
The  shadow  of  thy  swift  spirit,  this  shut 
scroll 
I  lay  my  hand  on,  and  not  death  estranges 

My  spirit  from  communion  of  thy  song  — 
These   memories  and   these  melodies  that 
throng 
Veiled  porches  of  a  Muse  funereal  — 

These  I  salute,  these  touch,  these  clasp  and 

fold 
As  though  a  hand  were  in  my  hand  to  hold, 


322      Select  ^poems;  of  ^tDinburne 

Or  through  mine  ears  a  mourning  musical 
Of  many  mourners  rolled. 

XI 

I  among  these,  I  also,  in  such  station 

As  when  the  pyre  was  charred,  and  piled 

the  sods, 
And  offering  to  the  dead  made,  and  their 
gods. 
The  old  mourners  had,  standing  to  make  liba- 
tion, 
I  stand,  and  to  the  gods  and  to  the  dead 
Do  reverence  without  prayer  or  praise,  and 
shed 
Offering  to  these  unknown,  the  gods  of  gloom, 
And  what  of  honey  and  spice  my  seedlands 

bear. 
And  what  I  may  of  fruits  in  this  chilled  air. 
And  lay,  Orestes-like,  across  the  tomb 
A  curl  of  severed  hair. 

XII 

But  by  no  hand  nor  any  treason  stricken, 

Not  like  the  low-lying  head  of  Him,  the 

King, 
The  flame  that  made  of  Troy  a  ruinous  thing, 
Thou   liest,  and  on   this    dust   no  tears   could 
quicken 


Bbe  acque  Wnlt  323 

There  fall  no  tears  like  theirs  that  all  men 
hear 

Fall  tear  by  sweet  imperishable  tear 
Down  the  opening  leaves  of  holy  poets'  pages. 

Thee  not  Orestes,  not  Electra  mourns ; 

But  bending  us-ward  with  memorial  urns 
The  most  high  Muses  that  fulfil  all  ages 

Weep,  and  our  God's  heart  yearns. 

XIII 

For,  sparing  of  his  sacred  strength,  not  often 

Among  us  darkling  here  the  lord  of  light 

Makes  manifest  his  music  and  his  might 
In  hearts  that  open  and  in  lips  that  soften 

With  the  soft  flame  and  heat  of  songs  that 
shine. 

Thy  lips  indeed  he  touched  with  bitter  wine, 
And  nourished  them  indeed  with  bitter  bread ; 

Yet   surely  from   his   hand  thy  soul's  food 
came. 

The  fire  that  scarred  thy  spirit  at  his  flame 
Was  lighted,  and  thine  hungering  heart  he  fed 

Who  feeds  our  hearts  with  fame. 

XIV 

Therefore  he  too  now  at  thy  soul's  sunsetting, 
God  of  all  suns  and  songs, he  too  bends  down 
To  mix  his  laurel  with  thy  cypress  crown, 


324      Select  IDonjtflf  of  ^tomburne 

And  save  thy  dust  from  blame  and  from  forget- 
ting. 
Therefore  he  too,  seeing  all  thou  wert  and 

a«,      _  ,11 

Compassionate,  with  sad  and  sacred  heart, 
Mourns  thee  of  many  his  children  the  last  dead. 
And  hallows  with  strange  tears  and  alien 

sighs 
Thine    unmelodious    mouth    and     sunless 
eyes, 
And  over  thine  irrevocable  head 

Sheds  light  from  the  under  skies. 

XV 

And  one  weeps  with  him  in  the  ways  Lethean, 
And  stains  with  tears  her  changing  bosom 

chill ; 
That  obscure  Venus  of  the  hollow  hill. 
That  thing  transformed  that  was  the  Cytherean, 
With   lips   that   lost   their  Grecian   laugh 

divine 
Long  since,  and  face  no  more  called  Ery- 
cine ; 
A  ghost,  a  bitter  and  luxurious  god. 

Thee  also  with   fair  flesh  and  singing  spell 
Did  she,  a  sad  and  second  prey,  compel 
Into  the  footless  places  once  more  trod, 
And  shadows  hot  from  hell. 


I 


jabe  atque  ©ale  325 

XVI 

And  now  no  sacred  staff  shall  break  in  blosson^ 
No  choral  salutation  lure  to  light 
A  spirit  sick  with  perfume  and  sweet  nigi 

And  love's  tired  eyes  and  hands  and  barren  bosom. 
There  is  no  help  for  these  things ;  none 

to  mend, 
And  none  to  mar;  not  all  our  songs,  O 
friend. 

Will  make  death  clear  or  make  life  durable. 
Howbeit  with  rose  and  ivy  and  wild  vine 
And  with  wild  notes  about  this  dust  of  thine 

At  least  I  fill  the  place  where  white  dreams  dwell 
And  wreathe  an  unseen  shrine. 

XVII 

Sleep ;  and  if  life  was  bitter  to  thee,  pardon, 
If  sweet,  give  thanks ;  thou  hast  no  more 

to  live ; 
And  to  give  thanks  is  good,  and  to  forgive. 
Out  of  the  mystic  and  the  mournful  garden 

Where  all  day  through  thine  hands  in  bar- 
ren braid 
Wove    the   sick    flowers   of   secrecy    and 
shade. 
Green  buds  of  sorrow  and  sin,  and  remnants 
grey, 


326      Select  :|jDoetnsf  of  ^iombume 

Sweet-smelling,  pale  with  poison,  sanguine- 
hearted. 

Passions    that     sprang    from     sleep     and 
thoughts  that  started. 
Shall  death  not  bring  us  all  as  thee  one  day 

Among  the  days  departed  ? 

XVIII 

For  thee,  O  now  a  silent  soul,  my  brother. 

Take  at  my  hands  this  garland,  and  farewell. 
Thin  is  the  leaf,  and  chill  the  wintry  smell, 

And  chill  the  solemn  earth,  a  fatal  mother. 
With  sadder  than  the  Niobean  womb, 
And  in  the  hollow  of  her  breast  a  tomb. 

Content  thee,  howsoe'er,  whose  days  are  done; 
There  lies  not  any  troublous  thing  before, 
Nor  sight  nor  sound  to  war  against  thee  more, 

For  whom  all  winds  are  quiet  as  the  sun, 
All  waters  as  the  shore. 


LINES  ON  THE  MONUMENT  OF 
GIUSEPPE  MAZZINI 

Italia,  mother  of  the  souls  of  men. 

Mother  divine. 
Of  all  that  served  thee  best  with  sword  or  pen, 

All  sons  of  thine. 


Jlinesf  on  t\)t  sponument  of  spa^^int    327 

Thou  knowest  that  here  the  likeness  of  the  best 

Before  thee  stands  : 
The  head  most  high,  the  heart  found  faithfulest. 

The  purest  hands. 

Above  the  fume  and  foam  of  time  that  flits. 

The  soul,  we  know, 
Now  sits  on  high  where  Alighieri  sits 

With  Angelo. 

Not  his  own  heavenly  tongue  hath  heavenly  speech 

Enough  to  say 
What  this  man  was,  whose  praise  no  thought 
may  reach. 

No  words  can  weigh. 

Since  man's  first  mother  brought  to  mortal  birth 

Her  first-born  son 
Such  grace  befell  not  ever  man  on  earth 

As  crowns  this  one. 

Of  God  nor  man  was  ever  this  thing  said, 

That  he  could  give 
Life  back  to  her  who  gave  him,  that  his  dead 

Mother  might  live. 

But  this  man  found  his  mother  dead  and  slain, 
With  fast  sealed  eyes, 


328      Select  ^poemsf  of  ^tombume 

And  bade  the  dead  rise  up  and  live  again, 
And  she  did  rise : 

And  all  the  world  was  bright  with  her  through 
him  : 

But  dark  with  strife, 
Like  heaven's  own  sun  that  storming  clouds  bedim, 
Was  all  his  life. 

Life  and  the  clouds  are  vanished  :  hate  and  fear 

Have  had  their  span 
Of  time  to  hurt,  and  are  not :  he  is  here. 

The  sunlike  man. 

City  superb,  that  hadst  Columbus  first 

For  sovereign  son, 
Be  prouder  that  thy  breast  hath  later  nurst 

This  mightier  one. 

Glory  be  his  for  ever,  while  this  land 

Lives  and  is  free, 
As  with  controlling  breath  and  sovereign  hand 

He  bade  her  be. 

Earth  shows  to  heaven  the  names  by  thousands  told 

That  crown  her  fame. 
But  highest  of  all  that  heaven  and  earth  behold 

Mazzini's  name. 


tIDfte  2Dcatt)  of  KicliarU  Magnrr    329 

THE  DEATH  OF  RICHARD  WAGNER 
I 

Mourning  on  earth,  as  when  dark  hours  descend, 
Wide-winged  with  plagues,  from  heaven  ;  when 

hope  and  mirth 
Wane,  and  no  lips  rebuke  or  reprehend 
Mourning  on  earth. 

The  soul  wherein  her  songs  of  death  and  birth, 
Darkness  and  light,  were  wont  to  sound  and  blend, 
Now  silent,  leaves  the  whole  world  less  in  worth. 

Winds  that  make  moan  and  triumph,  skies  that 

bend, 
Thunders,  and  sound  of  tides  in  gulf  and  firth. 
Spake  through  his  spirit  of  speech,  whose  death 

should  send 

Mourning  on  earth. 

II 

The   world's    great    heart,    whence    all    things 

strange  and  rare 
Take  form  and  sound,  that  each  inseparate  part 
May  bear  its  burden  in  all  tuned  thoughts  that 

share 

The  world's  great  heart  — 


330      g)flect  l^otm&  of  ^toinbume 

The   fountain    forces,  whence   like    steeds  that 

start 
Leap  forth  the  powers  of  earth  and  fire  and  air, 
Seas  that  revolve  and  rivers  that  depart  — 

Spake,  and  were  turned  to  song :  yea,  all   they 

were. 
With  all  their  works,  found  in  his  mastering  art 
Speech  as  of  powers  whose  uttered  word  laid  bare 
The  world's  great  heart. 

Ill 

From  the  depths  of  the  sea,  from  the  wellsprings 

of  earth,  from  the  wastes  of  the  midmost 

night. 
From  the  fountains  of  darkness  and  tempest  and 

thunder,    from  heights  where   the   soul 

would  be. 
The  spell  of  the  mage  of  music  evoked  their 

sense,  as  an  unknown  light 
From  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

As  a  vision  of  heaven  from  the  hollows  of  ocean, 
that  none  but  a  god  might  see. 

Rose  out  of  the  silence  of  things  unknown  of  a 
presence,  a  form,  a  might. 

And  we  heard  as  a  prophet  that  hears  God's 
message  against  him,  and  may  not  flee. 


SDrDication  331 

Eye  might  not  endure  it,  but  ear  and  heart  with 

a  rapture  of  dark  delight, 
With  a  terror  and  wonder  whose  care  was  joy, 

and  a  passion  of  thought  set  free, 
Felt  inly  the  rising  of  doom  divine  as  a  sundawn 

risen  to  sight 

From  the  depths  of  the  sea. 


DEDICATION 

The  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle. 

The  earth  gives  her  streams  to  the  sea  j 
They  are  many,  but  my  gift  is  single, 

My  verses,  the  firstfruits  of  me. 
Let  the  wind  take  the  green  and  the  grey  leaf, 

Cast  forth  without  fruit  upon  air; 
Take  rose-leaf  and  vine-leaf  and  bay-leaf 

Blown  loose  from  the  hair. 

The  night  shakes  them  round  me  in  legions, 

Dawn  drives  them  before  her  like  dreams  ; 
Time  sheds  them  like  snows  on  strange  regions, 

Swept  shoreward  on  infinite  streams ; 
Leaves  pallid  and  sombre  and  ruddy. 

Dead  fruits  of  the  fugitive  years  ; 
Some  stained  as  with  wine  and  made  bloody, 

And  some  as  with  tears. 


332      Select  ^poemsf  of  ^fcoinbume 

Some  scattered  in  seven  years'  traces, 

As  they  fell  from  the  boy  that  was  then ; 
Long  left  among  idle  green  places, 

Or  gathered  but  now  among  men ; 
On  seas  full  of  wonder  and  peril. 

Blown  white  round  the  capes  of  the  north  j 
Or  in  islands  where  myrtles  are  sterile 

And  loves  bring  not  forth. 

O  daughters  of  dreams  and  of  stories 

That  life  is  not  wearied  of  yet, 
Faustine,  Fragoletta,  Dolores, 

Felise  and  Yolande  and  Juliette, 
Shall  I  find  you  not  still,  shall  I  miss  you, 

When  sleep,  that  is  true  or  that  seems. 
Comes  back  to  me  hopeless  to  kiss  you, 

O  daughters  of  dreams  ? 

They  are  past  as  a  slumber  that  passes. 

As  the  dew  of  a  dawn  of  old  time ; 
More  frail  than  the  shadows  on  glasses. 

More  fleet  than  a  wave  or  a  rhyme. 
As  the  waves  after  ebb  drawing  seaward. 

When  their  hollows  are  full  of  the  night. 
So  the  birds  that  flew  singing  to  me-ward 

Recede  out  of  sight. 

The  songs  of  dead  seasons,  that  wander 
On  wings  of  articulate  words  ; 


SDeHication  333 

Lost  leaves  that  the  shore-wind  may  squander, 

Light  floclcs  of  untamable  birds  ; 
Some  sang  to  me  dreaming  in  class-time 

And  truant  in  hand  as  in  tongue  ; 
For  the  youngest  were  born  of  boy's  pastime, 

The  eldest  are  young. 

Is  there  shelter  while  life  in  them  lingers, 

Is  tnere  hearing  for  songs  that  recede, 
Tunes  touched  from  a  harp  with  man's  fingers 

Or  blown  with  boy's  mouth  in  a  reed  ? 
Is  there  place  in  the  land  of  your  labour. 

Is  there  room  in  your  world  of  delight, 
Where  change  has  not  sorrow  for  neighbour 

And  day  has  not  night  ? 

In  their  wings  though  the  sea-wind  yet  quivers, 

Will  you  spare  not  a  space  for  them  there. 
Made  green  with  the  running  of  rivers 

And  gracious  with  temperate  air ; 
In  the  fields  and  the  turreted  cities. 

That  cover  from  sunshine  and  rain 
Fair  passions  and  bountiful  pities 

And  loves  without  stain  ? 

In  a  land  of  clear  colours  and  stories. 

In  a  region  of  shadowless  hours. 
Where  earth  has  a  garment  of  glories 

And  a  murmur  of  musical  flowers  j 


334     Select  ^poemsf  of  ^toinburne 

In  woods  where  the  spring  half  uncovers 
The  flush  of  her  amorous  face, 

By  the  waters  that  listen  for  lovers, 
For  these  is  there  place  ? 

For  the  song-birds  of  sorrow,  that  muffle 

Their  music  as  clouds  do  their  fire  : 
For  the  storm-birds  of  passion,  that  ruffle 

Wild  wings  in  a  wind  of  desire ; 
In  the  stream  of  the  storm  as  it  settles 

Blown  seaward,  borne  far  from  the  sun, 
Shaken  loose  on  the  darkness  like  petals 

Dropt  one  after  one  ? 

Though  the  world  of  your  hands   be  more 
gracious. 

And  lovelier  in  lordship  of  things. 
Clothed  round  by  sweet  art  with  the  spacious 

Warm  heaven  of  her  imminent  wings. 
Let  them  enter,  unfledged  and  nigh  fainting, 

For  the  love  of  old  loves  and  lost  times ; 
And  receive  in  your  palace  of  painting 

This  revel  of  rhymes. 

Though  the  seasons  of  man  full  of  losses 
Make  empty  the  years  full  of  youth. 

If  but  one  thing  be  constant  in  crosses. 
Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth ; 


f 


SDfUtcation  335 

Hopes  die,  and  their  tombs  are  for  token 
That  the  grief  as  the  joy  of  them  ends 

Ere  time  that  breaks  all  men  has  broken 
The  faith  between  friends. 

Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 

There  is  help  if  the  heaven  has  one  ; 
Though  the  skies  be   discrowned  of  the  sun- 
light 

And  the  earth  dispossessed  of  the  sun, 
They  have  moonlight  and  sleep  for  repayment, 

When,  refreshed  as  a  bride  and  set  free, 
With  stars  and  sea-winds  in  her  raiment, 

Night  sinks  on  the  sea. 


DEDICATION 

Some  nine  years  gone,  as  we  dwelt  together 
In  the  sweet  hushed  heat  of  the  south   French 
weather 
Ere  autumn  fell  on  the  vine-tressed  hills 
Or  the  season  had  shed  one  rose-red  feather, 

Friend,  whose  fame  is  a  flame  that  fills 
All  eyes  it  lightens  and  hearts  it  thrills 

With  joy  to  be  born  of  the  blood  which  bred 
From  a  land  that  the  grey  sea  girds  and  chills 


336      Select  l^otmn  of  ^tDinbunte 

The  heart  and  spirit  and  hand  and  head 
Whose  might  is  as  light  on  a  dark  day  shed, 
On  a  day  now  dark  as  a  land's  decline 
Where  all  the  peers  of  your  praise  are  dead, 

In  a  land  and  season  of  corn  and  vine 

I  pledged  you  a  health  from  a  beaker  of  mine 

But  halfway  filled  to  the  lip's  edge  yet 
With  hope  for  honey  and  song  for  wine. 

Nine  years  have  risen  and  eight  years  set 
Since  there  by  the  wellspring  our  hands  on  it  met : 
And  the  pledge  of  my  songs  that  were  then 

to  be, 
I  could  wonder  not,    friend,  though    a    friend 

should  forget. 

For  life's  helm  rocks  to  the  windward  and  lee, 
And  time  is  as  wind,  and  as  waves  as  we ; 

And  song  is  as  foam  that  the  sea-winds  fret, 
Though  the  thought  at  its  heart  should  be  deep 
as  the  sea. 


METRICAL    EXPERIMENTS, 
IMITATIONS,  AND  PARODIES 


HENDECASYLLABICS 

In  the  month  of  the  long  decline  of  roses 
I,  beholding  the  summer  dead  before  me, 
Set  my  face  to  the  sea  and  journeyed  silent, 
Gazing  eagerly  where  above  the  sea-mark 
Flame  as  fierce  as  the  fervid  eyes  of  lions 
Half  divided  the  eyelids  of  the  sunset ; 
Till  1  heard  as  it  were  a  noise  of  waters 
Moving  tremulous  under  feet  of  angels 
Multitudinous,  out  of  all  the  heavens  ; 
Knew  the  fluttering  wind,  the  fluttered  foliage. 
Shaken  fitfully,  full  of  sound  and  shadow ; 
And  saw,  trodden  upon  by  noiseless  angels, 
Long  mysterious  reaches  fed  with  moonlight, 
Sweet  sad  straits  in  a  soft  subsiding  channel, 
Blown  about  by  the  lips  of  winds  I  knew  not. 
Winds  not  born  in  the  north  nor  any  quarter. 
Winds  not  warm  with  the  south  nor  any  sunshine, 
Heard  between  them  a  voice  of  exultation, 
"  Lo,  the  summer  is  dead,  the  sun  is  faded. 


33^      Select  ^ponnsf  of  ^toinbume 

Even  like  as  a  leaf  the  year  is  withered, 

All  the  fruits  of  the  day  from  all  her  branches 

Gathered,  neither  is  any  left  to  gather. 

All  the  flowers  are  dead,  the  tender  blossoms, 

All  are  taken  away  ;  the  season  wasted. 

Like  an  ember  among  the  fallen  ashes. 

Now  with  light  of  the  winter  days,  with  moonlight, 

Light  of  snow,  and  the  bitter  light  of  hoar-frost. 

We  bring  flowers  that  fade  not  after  autumn. 

Pale  white  chaplets  and  crowns  of  latter  seasons, 

Fair  false  leaves  (but  the  summer  leaves  were 

falser), 
Woven  under  the  eyes  of  stars  and  planets 
When  low  light  was  upon  the  windy  reaches 
Where  the  flower  of  foam  was  blown,  a  lily 
Dropt  among  the  sonorous  fruitless  furrows 
And  green  fields  of  the  sea  that  make  no  pasture  : 
Since  the  winter  begins,  the  weeping  winter. 
All  whose  flowers  are  tears,  and  round  his  temples 
Iron  blossom  of  frost  is  bound  for  ever." 


SAPPHICS 

All  the  night  sleep  came  not  upon  my  eyelids. 
Shed  not  dew,  nor  shook  nor  unclosed  a  feather. 
Yet  with  lips  shut  close  and  with  eyes  of  iron 
Stood  and  beheld  me. 


^appljtcg  339 

Then  to  me  so  lying  awake  a  vision 
Came  without  sleep  over  the  seas  and  touched  me. 
Softly  touched  mine  eyelids  and  lips ;  and  I  too, 
Full  of  the  vision, 

Saw  the  white  implacable  Aphrodite, 
Saw  the  hair  unbound  and  the  feet  unsandaled 
Shine  as  fire  of  sunset  on  western  waters  ; 
Saw  the  reluctant 

Feet,    the  straining  plumes  of   the  doves  that 

drew  her. 
Looking  always,  looking  with  necks  reverted. 
Back  to  Lesbos,  back  to  the  hills  whereunder 
Shone  Mitylene ; 

Heard  the  flying  feet  of  the  Loves  behind  her 
Make  a  sudden  thunder  upon  the  waters, 
As  the  thunder  flung  from  the  strong  unclosing 
Wings  of  a  great  wind. 

So  the  goddess  fled  from  her  place,  with  awful 
Sound  of  feet  and  thunder  of  wings  around  her  ; 
While  behind  a  clamour  of  singing  women 
Severed  the  twilight. 

Ah  the  singing,  ah  the  delight,  the  passion  ! 
All  the  Loves  wept,  listening ;  sick  with  anguish. 


340     Select  poentflf  of  ^tuinbunte 

Stood  the  crowned  nine  Muses  about  Apollo; 
Fear  was  upon  them, 

While  the  tenth    sang  wonderful    things   they 

knew  not. 
Ah  the  tenth,  the  Lesbian  !  the  nine  were  silent, 
None  endured  the  sound  of  her  song  for  weep- 
ing* 

Laurel  by  laurel. 

Faded  all  their  crowns ;  but  about  her  forehead. 
Round  her  woven  tresses  and  ashen  temples 
White  as  dead  snow,  paler  than  grass  in  sum- 
mer. 

Ravaged  with  kisses, 

Shone  a  light  of  fire  as  a  crown  for  ever. 
Yea,  almost  the  implacable  Aphrodite 
Paused,  and  almost  wept ;  such  a  song  was  that 
song. 

Yea,  by  her  name  too 

Called    her,  saying,    "  Turn    to    me,    O     my 

Sappho ; " 
Yet   she  turned  her  face  from  the  Loves,  she 

saw  not 
Tears  for  laughter  darken  immortal  eyelids, 
Heard  not  about  her 


^appljtcfif  341 

Fearful  fitful  wings  of  the  doves  departing, 
Saw  not  how  the  bosom  of  Aphrodite 
Shook  with  weeping,  saw  not  her  shaken  rai- 
ment. 

Saw  not  her  hands  wrung  ; 

Saw  the  Lesbians  kissing  across  their  smitten 
Lutes  with  lips  more  sweet  than  the  sound  of 

lute-strings, 
Mouth    to    mouth   and   hand    upon   hand,   her 

chosen. 

Fairer  than  all  men  ; 

Only  saw  the  beautiful  lips  and  fingers. 
Full  of  songs  and  kisses  and  little  whispers, 
Full  of  music  ;  only  beheld  among  them 
Soar,  as  a  bird  soars 

Newly  fledged,  her  visible  song,  a  marvel. 
Made  of  perfect  sound  and  exceeding  passion, 
Sweetly  shapen,  terrible,  full  of  thunders. 

Clothed  with  the  wind's  wings. 

Then    rejoiced    she,    laughing    with    love,  and 

scattered 
Roses,  awful  roses  of  holy  blossom ; 
Then  the  Loves  thronged  sadly  with  hidden  faces 
Round  Aphrodite, 


342      Select  ^|Doemfl(  of  ^toinburne 

Then  the  Muses,  stricken  at  heart,  were  silent; 
Yea,  the  gods  waxed  pale  ;  such  a  song  was  that 

song. 
All  reluctant,  all  with  a  fresh  repulsion. 
Fled  from  before  her. 

All  withdrew  long  since,  and  the  land  was  barren, 
Full  of  fruitless  women  and  music  only. 
Now  perchance,  when  winds  are  assuaged  at 
sunset. 

Lulled  at  the  dewfall, 

By  the  grey  seaside,  unassuaged,  unheard  of, 
Unbeloved,  unseen  in  the  ebb  of  twilight. 
Ghosts  of  outcast  women  return  lamenting. 
Purged  not  in  Lethe. 

Clothed  about  with  flame  and  with  tears,  and 

singing 
Songs  that  move  the  heart  of  the  shaken  heaven. 
Songs  that  break  the  heart  of  the  earth  with  pity. 
Hearing,  to  hear  them. 

CHORIAMBICS 

Love,  what  ailed  thee  to  leave  life  that  was 
made  lovely,  we  thought,  with  love  ? 

What  sweet  visions  of  sleep  lured  thee  away, 
down  from  the  lisht  above  ? 


i 


Cl)oriambic0  343 

What  strange  faces  of  dreams,  voices  that  called, 
hands  that  were  raised  to  wave, 

Lured  or  led  thee,  alas,  out  of  the  sun,  down  to 
the  sunless  grave  ? 

Ah,  thy  luminous  eyes  !  once  was  their  light  fed 

with  the  fire  of  day  ; 
Now  their  shadowy  lids  cover  them  close,  hush 

them  and  hide  away. 

Ah,  thy  snow-coloured  hands  !  once  were  they 
chains,  mighty  to  bind  me  fast  ; 

Now  no  blood  in  them  burns,  mindless  of  love, 
senseless  of  passion  past. 

Ah,  thy  beautiful  hair !   so  was  it  once  braided 

for  me,  for  me  ; 
Now  for  death  is  it  crowned,  only  for  death, 

lover  and  lord  of  thee. 

Sweet,  the  kisses  of  death  set  on  thy  lips,  colder 

are  they  than  mine  ; 
Colder  surely  than  past  kisses  that  love  poured 

for  thy  lips  as  wine. 

Lov'st  thou  death  ?  is  his  face  fairer  than  love's, 

brighter  to  look  upon  ? 
Seest  thou  light  in  his  eyes,  light  by  which  love's 

pales  and  is  overshone  ? 


344     Select  :ipoettTs;  of  ^tumbume 

Lo,  the  roses  of  death,  grey  as  the  dust,  chiller 

of  leaf  than  snow  ! 
Why  let  fall    from   thy  hand  loves  that  were 

thine,  roses  that  loved  thee  so  ? 

Large  red  lilies  of  love,  sceptral  and  tall,  lovely 

for  eyes  to  see  ; 
Thornless  blossom  of  love,  full  of  the  sun,  fruits 

that  were  reared  for  thee. 

Now  death's  poppies  alone  circle  thy  hair,  girdle 

thy  breasts  as  white; 
Bloodless  blossoms  of  death,  leaves  that  have 

sprung  never  against  the  light. 

Nay  then,  sleep  if  thou  wilt;  love  is  content; 

what  should  he  do  to  weep  ? 
Sweet  was  love  to  thee  once  ;  now  in  thine  eyes 

sweeter  than  love  is  sleep. 


^ranu  €\)otus  of  llBirDsf  345 

GRAND    CHORUS    OF   BIRDS    FROM 
ARISTOPHANES 

Attempted  in  English  -vene  after  the  original  metre 

THE    BIRDS 

(685-723) 

Come  on  then,  ye  dwellers  by  nature  in  dark- 
ness, and  like  to  the  leaves'  generations, 

That  are  little  of  might,  that  are  moulded  of  mire, 
unenduring  and  shadowlike  nations. 

Poor  plumeless  ephemerals,  comfortless  mortals, 
as  visions  of  creatures  fast  fleeing, 

Lift  up  your  mind  unto  us  that  are  deathless, 
and  dateless  the  date  of  our  being: 

Us,  children  of  heaven,  us,  ageless  for  aye,  us, 
all  of  whose  thoughts  are  eternal  ; 

That  ye  may  from  henceforth,  having  heard  of 
us  all  things  aright  as  to  matters  supernal. 

Of  the  being  of  birds  and  beginning  of  gods,  and 
of  streams,  and  the  dark  beyond  reaching. 

Truthfully  knowing  aright,  in  my  name  bid 
Prodicus  pack  with  his  preaching. 

It  was  Chaos  and  Night  at  the  first,  and  the 
blackness  of  darkness,  and  hell's  broad 
border, 


346      Select  ^poetnfi  of  ^iombutne 

Earth  was  not,  nor  air,  neither  heaven  ;  when  in 

depths  of  the  womb  of  the  dark  without 

order 
First  thing  first-born  of  the  black-plumed  Night 

was  a  wind-egg  hatched  in  her  bosom, 
Whence    timely  with    seasons  revolving  again 

sweet  Love  burst  out  as  a  blossom. 
Gold  wings   glittering   forth  of  his   back,  like 

whirlwinds  gustily  turning. 
He,  after  his  wedlock  with  Chaos,  whose  wings 

are  of  darkness,  in  hell  broad-burning. 
For  his  nestlings  begat  him  the  race  of  us  first, 

and  upraised  us  to  light  new-lighted. 
And  before  this  was  not  the  race  of  the  gods, 

until  all  things  by  Love  were  united  ; 
And  of  kind  united  with  kind  in  communion  of 

nature  the  sky  and  the  sea  are 
Brought  forth,  and  the  earth,  and  the  race  of  the 

gods  everlasting  and  blest.  So  that  we  are 
Far  away  the  most  ancient  of  all  things  blest. 

And  that  we  are  of  Love's  generation 
There  are  manifest  manifold  signs.    We  have 

wings,  and  with  us  have  the  Loves  hab- 
itation ; 
And  manifold  fair  young  folk  that  forswore  love 

once,  ere  the  bloom  of  them  ended. 
Have  the  men  that  pursued  and  desired  them 

subdued,  by   the   help   of  us  only   be- 
friended, 


€iranD  Ctiorus:  of  llBtrDs;  347 

With  such  baits  as  a  quail,  a  flamingo,  a  goose, 
or  a  cock's  comb  staring  and  splendid. 

All  best  good  things  that  befall  men  come  from 
us  birds,  as  is  plain  to  all  reason  : 

For  first  we  proclaim  and  make  known  to  them 
spring,  and  the  winter  and  autumn  in 
season  ; 

Bid  sow,  when  the  crane  starts  clanging  for  Afric, 
in  shrill-voiced  emigrant  number. 

And  calls  to  the  pilot  to  hang  up  his  rudder  again 
for  the  season,  and  slumber ; 

And  then  weave  a  cloak  for  Orestes  the  thief, 
lest  he  strip  men  of  theirs  if  it  freezes. 

And  again  thereafter  the  kite  reappearing  an- 
nounces a  change  in  the  breezes. 

And  that  here  is  the  season  for  shearing  your 
sheep  of  their  spring  wool.  Then  does 
the  swallow 

Give  you  notice  to  sell  your  greatcoat,  and  pro- 
vide something  light  for  the  heat  that 's 
to  follow. 

Thus  are  we  as  Ammon  or  Delphi  unto  you, 
Dodona,  nay,  Phoebus  Apollo. 

For,  as  first  ye  come  all  to  get  auguries  of  birds, 
even  such  is  in  all  things  your  carriage. 

Be  the  matter  a  matter  of  trade,  or  of  earning 
your  bread,  or  of  any  one's  marriage. 


348      Select  'J^otms  of  ^tDinbume 

And  all  things  ye  lay  to  the  charge  of  a  bird  that 
belong  to  discerning  prediction  : 

Winged  fame  is  a  bird,  as  you  reckon  :  you 
sneeze,  and  the  sign's  as  a  bird  for  con- 
viction : 

All  tokens  are  "  birds  "  with  you  —  sounds  too, 
and  lackeys,  and  donkeys.  Then  must 
it  not  follow 

That  we  are  to  you  all  as  the  manifest  godhead 
that  speaks  in  prophetic  Apollo  ? 

A  JACOBITE'S   FAREWELL 

1716 

There's  nae  mair  lands  to  tyne,  my  dear, 

And  nae  mair  lives  to  gie  : 
Though  a  man  think  sair  to  live  nae  mair, 

There's  but  one  day  to  die. 

For  a'  things  come  and  a'  days  gane, 
What  needs  ye  rend  your  hair  ? 

But  kiss  me  till  the  morn's  morrow. 
Then  I'll  kiss  ye  nae  mair. 

O  lands  are  lost  and  life's  losing. 

And  what  were  they  to  gie  ? 
Fu'  mony  a  man  gives  all  he  can, 

But  nae  man  else  gives  ye. 


3r  iflarobite'0  (Bxilt  349 

Our  king  wons  ower  the  sea's  water, 

And  I  in  prison  sair : 
But  I'll  win  out  the  morn's  morrow, 

And  ye'll  see  me  nae  mair. 

A   JACOBITE'S    EXILE 

1746 

The  weary  day  rins  down  and  dies, 
The  weary  night  wears  through  : 

And  never  an  hour  is  fair  wi'  flower. 
And  never  a  flower  wi'  dew. 

I  would  the  day  were  night  for  me, 

I  would  the  night  were  day  : 
For  then  would  I  stand  in  my  ain  fair  land, 

As  now  in  dreams  I  may. 

O  lordly  flow  the  Loire  and  Seine, 

And  loud  the  dark  Durance : 
But  bonnier  shine  the  braes  of  Tyne 

Than  a'  the  fields  of  France  : 
And  the  waves  of  Till  that  speak  sae  still 

Gleam  goodlier  where  they  glance. 

O  weel  were  they  that  fell  fighting 

On  dark  Drumossie's  day  : 
They  keep  their  hame  ayont  the  facm. 

And  we  die  far  away. 


350      Select  ^poems  of  ^ioinburne 

O  sound  they  sleep,  and  saft,  and  deep, 

But  night  and  day  wake  we ; 
And  ever  between  the  sea-banks  green 

Sounds  loud  the  sundering  sea. 

And  ill  we  sleep,  sae  sair  we  weep, 

But  sweet  and  fast  sleep  they ; 
And  the  mool  that  haps  them  roun'  and  laps 
them 

Is  e'en  their  country's  clay ; 
But  the  land  we  tread  that  are  not  dead 

Is  strange  as  night  by  day. 

Strange  as  night  in  a  strange  man's  sight, 

Though  fair  as  dawn  it  be : 
For  what  is  here  that  a  stranger's  cheer 

Should  yet  wax  blithe  to  see  ? 

The  hills  stand  steep,  the  dells  lie  deep. 

The  fields  are  green  and  gold  :  | 

The  hill-streams  sing,  and  the  hill-sides  ring. 
As  ours  at  home  of  old. 

But  hills  and  flowers  are  nane  of  ours, 

And  ours  are  oversea : 
And  the  kind  strange  land  whereon  we  stand, 

It  wotsna  what  were  we 
Or  ever  we  came,  wi'  scathe  and  shame, 

To  try  what  end  might  be. 


0  51acobtte'g  Cjcile  351 

Scathe,  and  shame,  and  a  waefu'  name, 

And  a  weary  time  and  strange. 
Have  they  that  seeing  a  weird  for  dreeing 

Can  die,  and  cannot  change. 

Shame  and  scorn  may  we  thole  that  mourn, 

Though  sair  be  they  to  dree : 
But  ill  may  we  bide  the  thoughts  we  hide, 

Mair  keen  than  wind  and  sea. 

Ill  may  we  thole  the  night's  watches, 

And  ill  the  weary  day: 
And  the  dreams  that  keep  the  gates  of  sleep, 

A  waefu'  gift  gie  they ; 
For  the  sangs  they  sing  us,  the  sights  they  bring  us, 

The  morn  blaws  all  away. 

On  Aikenshaw  the  sun  blinks  braw. 

The  burn  rins  blithe  and  fain  : 
There's  nought  wi'  me  I  wadna  gie 

To  look  thereon  again. 

On  Keilder-side  the  wind  blaws  wide  : 

There  sounds  nae  hunting-horn 
That  rings  sae  sweet  as  the  winds  that  beat 

Round  banks  where  Tyne  is  born. 

The  Wansbeck  sings  with  all  her  springs. 
The  bents  and  braes  give  ear; 


352     fe>tlect  l^otms  of  l&tombume 

But  the  wood  that  rings  wi'  the  sang  she  sings 

I  may  not  see  nor  hear; 
For  far  and  far  thae  blithe  burns  are, 

And  strange  is  a'  thing  near. 

The  light  there  lightens,  the  day  there  bright- 
ens, 
The  loud  wind  there  lives  free : 
Nae  light  comes  nigh  me  or  wind  blaws  by 
me 
That  I  wad  hear  or  see. 

But  O  gin  I  were  there  again, 

Afar  ayont  the  faem, 
Cauld  and  dead  in  the  sweet  saft  bed 

That  haps  my  sires  at  hame  ! 

We'll  see  nae  mair  the  sea-banks  fair, 
And  the  sweet  grey  gleaming  sky. 

And  the  lordly  strand  of  Northumberland, 
And  the  goodly  towers  thereby  : 

And   none    shall    know    but    the    winds   that 
blow 
The  graves  wherein  we  lie. 


W^ift  i^ig^er  pmt\)mm  in  a  ijiutsijell  353 


THE     HIGHER     PANTHEISM     IN     A 
NUTSHELL 

One,  who  is  not,  we  see  :   but  one,  whom  we 

see  not,  is  : 
Surely   this   is   not  that :  but  that  is  assuredly 

this. 

What,  and  wherefore,  and  whence  ?   for  under 

is  over  and  under  : 
If  thunder  could  be  without  lightning,  lightning 

could  be  without  thunder. 

Doubt  is  faith  in  the  main  :  but  faith,  on  the 
whole,  is  doubt : 

We  cannot  believe  by  proof:  but  could  we  be- 
lieve without  ? 

Why,  and  whither,  and  how  ?  for  barley  and  rye 

are  not  clover : 
Neither  are   straight  lines  curves  :  yet  over  is 

under  and  over. 

Two  and  two  may  be  four,  but  four  and   four 

are  not  eight  : 
Fate  and  God  may  be  twain  :  but  God  is  the 

same  thing  as  fate. 


354     Select  pomtsf  of  ^toinburne 

Ask  a  man  what  he  thinks,  and  get  from  a  man 

what  he  feels  : 
God,  once  caught  in  the  fact,  shows  you  a  fair 

pair  of  heels. 

Body  and   spirit  are  twins  :   God    only  knows 

which  is  which  : 
The  soul  squats  down  in  the  flesh,  like  a  tinker 

drunk  in  a  ditch. 

More  is  the  whole  than  a  part :  but  half  is  more 

than  the  whole  : 
Clearly,  the  soul  is  the  body  :  but  is  not  the  body 

the  soul  ? 

One  and  two  are  not  one :  but  one  and  nothing 

is  two : 
Truth   can   hardly  be  false,  if  falsehood  cannot 

be  true. 

Once    the    mastodon    was :    pterodactyls   were    S 

common  as  cocks  : 
Then   the  mammoth  was   God  :   now  is   He  a 

prize  ox. 

Parallels  all  things  are  :  yet  many  of  these  are 

asked  : 
You    are  certainly   I :   but    certainly   I   am   not 

you. 


bonnet  for  a  picture  355 

Springs  the  rock  from  the  plain,  shoots  the  stream 

from  the  rock : 
Cocks  exist  for  the  hen,  but  hens  exist  for  the 

cock. 

God,  whom  we  see  not,  is :   and   God,  who  is 

not,  we  see  : 
Fiddle,  we  know,  is  diddle  :  and  diddle,  we  take 

it,  is  dee. 

SONNET  FOR  A    PICTURE 

That  nose  is  out  of  drawing.    With  a  gasp., 
She  pants  upon  the  passionate  lips  that  ache 
With  the  red  drain  of  her  own  mouth,  and 
make 

A  monochord  of  colour.    Like  an  asp. 

One  lithe  lock  wriggles  in  his  rutilant  grasp. 
Her  bosom  is  an  oven  of  myrrh,  to  bake 
Love's  warm  white  shewbread  to  a  browner 
cake. 

The  lock  his  fingers  clench  has  burst  its  hasp. 

The  legs  are  absolutely  abominable. 

Ah  !   what  keen  overgust  of  wild-eyed  woes 
Flags  in  that  bosom,  flushes  in  that  nose  ? 

Nay  !    Death  sets  riddles  for  desire  to  spell. 

Responsive.    What  red  hem  earth's  passion 
sews. 

But  may  be  ravenously  unripped  in  hell  ? 


356     ^elm  ^poentsf  of  ^tombume 

NEPHELIDIA 

From  the  depth  of  the  dreamy  decline  of  the 

dawn  through  a  notable  nimbus  of  nebu- 
lous noonshine, 
Pallid  and  pink  as  the  palm  of  the  flag-flower 

that  flickers  with  fear  of  the  flies  as  they 

float, 
Are  they  looks  of  our  lovers  that  lustrously  lean 

from    a    marvel    of   mystic   miraculous 

moonshine, 
These  that  we  feel  in  the  blood  of  our  blushes 

that    thicken  and   threaten   with   throbs 

through  the  throat  ? 
Thicken  and  thrill  as  a  theatre  thronged  at  appeal 

of  an  actor's  appalled  agitation, 
Fainter  with  fear  of  the  fires  of  the  future  than 

pale  with  the  promise  of  pride  in  the  past ; 
Flushed  with  the  famishing  fulness  of  fever  that 

reddens  with  radiance  of  rathe  recreation. 
Gaunt  as  the  ghastliest  of  glimpses  that  gleam 

through  the  gloom  of  the  gloaming  when 

ghosts  go  aghast  ? 
Nay,  for  the  nick  of  the  tick  of  the  time  is  a 

tremulous  touch  on  the  temples  of  terror, 
Strained  as  the  sinews  yet  strenuous  with  strife 

of  the  dead  who  is  dumb  as  the  dust-heaps 

of  death : 


i^epljeliDia  357 

Surely  no  soul  is  it,  sweet  as  the  spasm  of  erotic 

emotional  exquisite  error, 
Bathed  in  the  balms  of  beatified  bliss,  beatific" 

itself  by  beatitudes'  breath. 
Surely  no  spirit  or  sense  of  a  soul  that  was  soft 

to  the  spirit  and  soul  of  our  senses 
Sweetens  the  stress  of  suspiring  suspicion  that 

sobs  in   the  semblance  and  sound  of  a 

sigh; 
Only  this  oracle  opens  Olympian,  in  mystical 

moods  and  triangular  tenses  — 
"  Life  is  the  lust  of  a  lamp  for  the  light  that  is 

dark  till  the  dawn  of  the  day  when  we  die." 
Mild    is  the  mirk  and    monotonous    music  of 

memory,  melodiously  mute  as  it  may  be, 
While  the  hope  in  the  heart  of  a  hero  is  bruised 

by  the  breach  of  men's  rapiers,  resigned 

to  the  rod ; 
Made  meek  as    a    mother  whose  bosom-beats 

bound  with  the  bliss-bringing  bulk  of  a 

balm-breathing  baby. 
As  they  grope  through  the  grave-yard  of  creeds, 

under  skies  growing  green  at  a  groan  for 

the  grimness  of  God. 
Blank  is  the  book  of  his  bounty  beholden  of  old, 

and  its  binding  is  blacker  than  bluer  : 
Out  of  blue  into  black  is  the  scheme  of  the 

skies,  and  their  dews  are  the  wine  of  the 

bloodshed  of  things  ; 


358     Select  |Doem0  of  ^tDinbume 

Till  the  darkling  desire  of  delight  shall  be  free 
as  a  fawn  that  is  freed  from  the  fangs  that 
pursue  her, 
Till  the  heart-beats  of  hell  shall  be  hushed  by 
a  hymn  from  the  hunt  that  has  harried 
the  kennel  of  kings. 


Cl^ronologtcal  Itjgt  of  Wvitin^^ 

i860.  The  Queen  Mother,  and  Rosamond. 

1865.  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 

1865.  Chastelard  :   A  Tragedy. 

1866.  Poems  and  Ballads. 

1866.  Note  on  Poems  and  Reviews. 

1867.  A  Song  of  Italy. 

1868.  Siena. 

1868.   William  Blake  :   A  Critical  Essay. 

1870.  Ode  on   the   Proclamation    of  the  French  Republic  5  Sep- 

tember 4th,  1870. 

1871.  Songs  before  Sunrise. 
1872     Under  the  Microscope. 
1 8  74.    Bothwell  :   A  Tragedy. 
1875.    George  Chapman. 
1875.   Essays  and  Studies. 

1875.  Songs  of  Two  Nations  (A  Song  of  Italy,  Ode  on  the  Pro- 

clamation of  the  French  Republic,  and  Dirje). 

1876.  Erechtheus  :   A  Tragedy. 

1876.  Note  of  an  English  Republican  on  the  Muscovite  Crusade. 

1877.  A  Note  on  Charlotte  Bronte. 

1878.  Poems  and  Ballads.    Second  Series. 
1880.  A  Study  of  Shakespeare. 

1880.    Songs  of  the  Springtides. 
1880.    Studies  in  Song. 

1880.  Specimens   of   Modern    Poets.     The  Heptalogia  ;  or,   the 

Seven  against  Sense.    A  Cap  with  Seven  Bells. 

1881.  Mary  Stuart  :   A  Tragedy. 

1882.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse,  and  Other  Poems. 

1883.  A  Century  of  Roundels. 

1884.  A  Midsummer  Holiday,  and  Other  Poems. 

1885.  Marino  Faliero  :   A  Tragedy. 


360    Cl^ronological  Ili0t  of  Mritingjf 

886.  A  Study  of  Victor  Hugo. 

886.  Miscellanies. 

887.  A  Word  for  the  Navy. 
887.  Locrine  :  A  Tragedy. 
889.  A  Study  of  Ben  Jonson. 

889.  Poems  and  Ballads.    Third  Series. 

892.  The  Sisters  :   A  Tragedy. 

894.  Astrophel,  and  Other  Poems. 

894.  Studies  in  Prose  and  Poetry. 

896.  The  Tale  of  Balen. 

899.  Rosamund,  Queen  of  the  Lombards. 

904.  A  Channel  Passage,  and  Other  Poems. 

905.  Love's  Cross  Currents. 

This  list  includes  all  of  Swinburne's  works  that  have  appeared 
as  individual  publications  with  title-pages  of  their  own.  To  them 
should  be  added  Dead  Lo-ve  (in  Once-a-fVeek,  1862),  and  A 
Year's  Letters,  by  Mrs.  Horace  Manners  (in  TAe   Tatler,  1877), 


'Biblio5rapl)tcal  iSote 

There  is  a  Bibliography  of  Swinburne's  writings  by  Richard 
Heme  Shepherd,  covering  the  period  1 857-1 887.  The  English 
editions  of  Swinburne  are  published  by  Chatto  and  Windus.  They 
include  all  the  volumes  mentioned  in  the  Chronological  List, 
several  of  them  being  out  of  print.  There  is  also  a  volume  of 
Select  Poems  (the  author's  selection,  1887)  containing  examples 
from  fourteen  volumes  of  poems  and  plays.  The  same  publishers 
issue  the  complete  Poetical  Works,  in  six  volumes  (including 
Atalanta  in  Calydon  and  Erechtheus\.  They  are  also  to  issue  the 
Dramatic  Works,  in  five  volumes.  There  are  early  American 
editions  of  The  i^een  Mother  and  Roiamond  (Ticknor  &  Fields), 
Chastelard  (Holt),  Atalanta  in  Calydon  (Holt),  and  Poems  and 
Ballads  I.  ( Carleton ) .  The  last-named  volume  is  entitled  Laus 
Veneris  and  alters  the  arrangement  of  the  contents.  A  dozen 
or  more  volumes  of  verse  and  prose  were  reprinted  by  the  Worth- 
ington  Co.,  who  supplied  the  American  market  for  a  term  of 
years.  The  Tale  of  Balen  bears  the  imprint  of  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  who  also  have  upon  their  list  the  entire  series  of  the  original 
English  editions,  excepting  those  out  of  print.  The  Sisters  was 
published  by  the  United  States  Book  Co.,  and  Rosamund,  if^ueen 
of  the  Lombards,  by  Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.  A  so-called  "complete 
edition  "  of  the  Poetical  Works  (J.  D.  Williams,  1884)  includes 
in  a  single  volume  six  of  the  plays,  and  the  contents,  wholly  or  in 
part,  of  six  volumes  of  the  poems.  It  is  shockingly  misprinted.  A 
volume  oi  Selections  (Crowell,  1884),  with  introduction  by  R.  H. 
Stoddard,  reprints  the  two  Greek  dramas,  tlie  Mary  Stuart  trilogy 
complete,  and  a  large  number  of  the  poems.  The  tasteful  Moshcr 
reprints  include  Atalanta  in  Calydon,  Songs  before  Sunrise,  the  three 
series  of  Poems  and  Ballads,  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems, 
The  Heptalogia,  Under  the  Microscope,  A  Tear's  Letters,  and  Dead 
Lo-ve.    Harper  &  Brothers  are  the  American  publishers  of  the  new 


362  Bibliographical  il^ote 

standard  edition  of  the  Poetical  fVorki,  in  six  volumes,  and  the 
Dramatic  fVorks,  in  five  volumes. 

Poole's  Index  provides  hundreds  of  references  to  contemporary 
reviews  of  Swinburne.  The  most  important  document  for  the 
study  of  his  poetry  is  the  dedicatory  epistle  to  Theodore  Watts- 
Dunton,  prefixed  by  the  author  to  the  new  uniform  edition  of  his 
Poetical  Works.  This  offers  a  retrospect  of  his  whole  literary 
career.  He  has  not  yet  been  made  the  subject  of  much  critical 
examination  of  the  more  serious  sort.  H.  B.  Forman's  chapter  in 
Our  Li-ving  Poets,  Lowell's  essay,  and  Stoddard's  introduction 
(above-mentioned)  are  examples  of  singularly  superficial  and  un- 
generous criticism.  On  the  other  hand,  E.  C.  Stedman's  chapter  in 
the  Victorian  Poets  has  high  critical  value,  and  is  probably  the  most 
important  treatment  of  Swinburne  that  has  thus  far  been  made. 
Modern  Poets  and  Cosmic  Laiv,  by  Frederic  Myers  (in  Science  and 
a  Future  Life),  is  both  appreciative  and  suggestive.  There  are 
two  interesting  chapters  in  George  Saintsbury's  Corrected  Impres- 
sions. James  Douglas,  in  the  new  edition  of  Chambers's  Cyclopaedia 
of  English  Literature,  gives  a  just  and  sympathetic  estimate. 
Other  studies  include  the  following  :  Francis  Adams,  Essays  in 
Modernity  ;  Alfred  Austin,  Poetry  of  the  Period  ^  W.  L.  Court- 
ney, Studies  New  and  Old ;  J.  V.  Cheney,  The  Golden  Guess  ; 
Vida  D.  Scudder,  The  Life  of  the  Spirit  in  the  Modern  English 
Poets,  and  W.  M.  Payne,  in  'fVarner''s  Library  of  the  World^i 
Best  Literature.  Among  continental  estimates  may  be  mentioned  : 
WoUaeger,  Studien  iiber  Stvinburne^s  Poetischen  Stil ;  G.  Sarrazin, 
Poetes  Modernes  de  V  Angleterre,  and  Paul  de  Reul,  Sivinburne  et 
la  France.  The  only  book  upon  Swinburne  thus  far  published  is 
the  study  by  Theodore  Wratislaw,  an  uacritically  eulogistic  produc- 
tion of  slight  value. 


iiom 


If  any  excuse  were  needed  for  the  classified  arrangement  chosen  foi 
this  volume  of  selected  poems,  it  might  be  found  in  Swinburne's  own 
words  :  "It  might  be  thought  pedantic  or  pretentious  in  a  modern 
poet  to  divide  his  poems  after  the  old  Roman  fashion  into  sections 
and  classes.  I  must  confess  that  I  should  like  to  see  this  method 
applied,  were  it  but  by  way  of  experiment  in  a  single  edition,  to  the 
work  of  the  leading  poets  of  our  own  country  and  century  :  to  see, 
for  instance,  their  lyrical  and  elegiac  works  ranged  and  registered 
apart,  each  kind  in  a  class  of  its  own,  such  as  is  usually  reserved,  I 
know  not  why,  for  sonnets  only.  The  apparent  formality  of  such 
an  arrangement  as  would  give  us,  for  instance,  the  odes  of  Cole- 
ridge and  Shelley  collected  into  a  distinct  reservation  or  division 
might  possibly  be  more  than  compensated  to  the  more  capable 
among  students  by  the  gain  in  ethical  or  spiritual  symmetry  and 
aesthetic  or  intellectual  harmony. ' ' 

I.  Athens  :  an  Ode.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems. 
Dated  April,  1 88 1.  This  is  Swinburne's  most  perfect  example  of 
the  Pindaric  ode,  with  the  regular  sequence  of  strophe,  antistrophe, 
and  epode,  "  The  Greek  form  .  .  .  not  to  be  imitated  because 
it  is  Greek,  but  to  be  adopted  because  it  is  best."  His  earliest  work 
in  this  form  was  the  Ode  on  the  Insurrection  in  Candia  (1867), 
of  which  he  says  :  "  I  doubt  whether  it  quite  succeeded  in  evading 
the  criminal  risk  and  the  capital  offence  of  formality.  .  .  .  But  in 
my  later  ode  on  Athens,  absolutely  faithful  as  it  is  to  the  strictest 
type  and  the  most  stringent  law  of  Pindaric  hymnology,  I  venture 
to  believe  that  there  is  no  more  sign  of  this  infirmity  than  in  the 
less  classically  regulated  poem  on  the  Armada.  ...  By  the  test 
of  these  two  poems  I  am  content  that  my  claims  should  be  decided 
and  my  station  determined  as  a  lyric  poet  in  the  higher  sense  of  the 
term." 


364  iliotes 


I,  5.  The  first-born  olive-blossom.  The  olive  was  the 
gift  of  Athene  to  her  chosen  city  at  the  time  of  the  victory  over 
Poseidon  and  the  hosts  of  the  sea. 

5,  5.  Your  battle-cry  •was  healing.  Paean,  or  Paian 
(the  healer);  in  Homer,  the  physician  of  the  Olympian  gods,  after- 
wards an  epithet  of  Apollo,  used  in  a  more  general  sense  as  an  invo- 
cation to  the  gods,  especially  a  prayer  for  victory. 

8,  3.  The  great  chryselephantine  God.  The  colossal 
statue  of  Zeus  at  Olympia,  made  of  ivory  and  gold  by  Phidias. 

10,  I.  Well-beloved  Harmodius and  Aristogeiton. 

A  line  from  the  scholion  which  celebrates  these   patriotic  assassins. 

10,  6.  The  Feast  Panathenaean.  The  ancient  festival 
in  honor  of  Athene. 

10,  7.  The  Cyprian  dove.  Cyprus  was  famous  for  its 
doves,  which  were  sacred  to  Aphrodite. 

ID,  14.  Mild-winged  maidens.  The  chorus  of  Oceani- 
des  in  the  Prometheus  Bound  of  y^schylus. 

II,  14.  He  may  smite  me,  etc.  See  .^^schylus,  Pro- 
metheus Bound,  1053. 

12,  I.  The  sevenfold  storm,  etc  .(^schylus,  The  Seven 
against  Thebes. 

12,    3.    Sang  the  flight,  etc.     .(Eschylus,  The  Suppliants. 

12,  7.  King  of  kings,  etc.  See  .^schylus,  The  Suppli- 
ants, 524  (Teubner). 

12,  10.  When  of  Salamis,  etc.  .^Eschylus,  The  Per- 
sians. 

12,  14.    The  birth  of  Leda's  womb.    Helen. 

13,  2.  The  twin-born  human-fathered  sister- 
flower.      Clytaemnestra,  daughter  of  Leda  and  Tyndareos. 

13,  3.  Scarce  the  cry,  etc.  See  yEschylus,  Prometheus 
Bound,   88-91. 

13,  7.    The  murderous   word,     etc.    See   .(Eschyius, 

Agamemnon,  1555-59  (Teubner). 

13,  9.  The  latter  note  of  anguish,  etc.  See  .^schy- 
lus,  Choephora,  896-98  (Teubner). 

14,  4.  Sleep  ye,  etc.  See  .^schylus,  Eumenides,  94 
(Teubner). 

14,  8.  More  than    ye  was   she,  etc.     More  than  the 


#ote£f  365 

Furies  was  the  shade  of  Clytaemnestra,  whom  no  god  save  Athene 
(Wisdom)  might  withstand. 

14,  10.  Yea,  no  God  may  stand,  etc.  In  the  Eumen- 
iJes,  Athene  gives  the  casting  vote  for  the  acquittal  of  Orestes, 
and  placates  the  Furies,  reconciling  them  to  her  decision. 

14,  12.  Light  ■whose  law,  etc.  See  close  of  Eumenides. 
Childless  Children,  etc     Eumenides,   1034  (Teubner). 

15,  5.  Rose  and  vine  and  olive,  etc.  A  suggestion  of 
the  epitaph  upon  Sophocles  by  Simmias  of  Thebes,  thus  translated 
by  Plumptre  : 

'*  Creep  gently,  ivy,  ever  gently  creep. 

Where  Sophocles  sleeps  on  in  calm  repose  •, 
Thy  pale  green  tresses  o'er  the  marble  sweep. 

While  all  around  shall  bloom  the  purpling  rose. 
There  let  the  vine  with  rich  fuU  clusters  hang, 
Its  fair  young  tendrils  fling  around  the  stone  ; 
Due  meed  for  that  sweet  wisdom  which  he  sang. 
By  Muses  and  by  Graces  called  their  own." 

16,  3-8.  These  lines  are  a  free  translation  of  Sophocles,  Anti' 
gone,  781—90. 

16,  13.  As  the  music  mingling,  etc.  The  chorus 
which  accompanies  Antigone  to  her  tomb. 

18,  2.  Would  that  fate,  etc.  See  Sophocles,  (Edtpus 
TyrannuSy  863  s^y. 

18,  12.  The  haunt  closed  in,  etc.  See  Sophocles,  (Edi- 

pus  at  Co/onus,  668  s<^^.  and  126-30. 

I9»  3-  There  her  father,  etc.    See  closing  scene  of  (Edi- 

pu$  at  Colonus. 

19,  7.    Third  of  three.    Aristophanes. 

20,  I.     Loxian,  An  epithet  of  Apollo,  meaning  the  Obscure. 
20,    6.    Doria.    Andrea  Doria  (1468-15 60).    A  great  Genoese 

admiral  who  in  1 529,  refusing  a  crown,  established  popular  govern- 
ment in  Genoa. 

20,  6.  Dandolo.  The  first  Venetian  Doge  of  that  name. 
Born  1 1 10-15,  '^'^'1  1205.  He  greatly  extended  the  power  of 
the  Venetian  republic. 

20,  7.    Ausonia.    Italy. 


366  i^Otes! 


22.  The  Armada.  Poems  and  Ballads,  iii.  For  Swinburne's 
estimate  of  this  ode  see  note  to  Athens. 

26,  7.  They  that  ride,  etc.  An  ancient  English  rhymed 
prophecy  of  unknown  authorship. 

33,  8.  Python.  The  serpent  of  the  caves  of  Parnassus, 
slain  by  Apollo  with  his  first  arrows. 

34,  9.  Their  chief.  Alonzo  de  Guzman,  Duke  of  Medina- 
Sidonia. 

40,  4.  Oquendo.  Miguel  de  Oquendo,  commander  of  one 
of  the  squadrons  of  the  Armada,  who  won  great  distinction  during 
the  battle,  and  brought  a  fragment  of  the  fleet  safely  home  to  San 
Sebastian. 

50.  Ode  on  the  Proclamation  of  the  French  Republic. 
Songs  of  T1V0  Nations.  Dedicated  to  Victor  Hugo.  Dated 
Sept.  4,  1870.  The  Greek  motto  is  from  ^schylus,  y^^aOTfwno;;, 
121.  Swinburne  translates  it,  "  Cry  wellaway,  but  well  befall  the 
right,"  in  his  poem,  A  Tear'' s  Burden  (^Songs  before  Sunrise). 

67.  The  Garden  of  Proserpine.  Poems  and  Ballads,  i. 
"Of  all  Swinburne's  poems,  perhaps  the  most  wonderful,  with 
melody  farthest  beyond  the  reach  of  any  other  still  living  man,  is 
that  Garden  of  Proserpine,  whose  close  represents  in  well-known 
words  the  deep  life-weariness  of  men  who  have  had  enough  of  love.'' 
Frederic  Myers.  There  is  a  curious  resemblance  between  this  poem 
and  Christina  Rossetti's  Dream-land,  published  in  i86z. 

71.  Hymn  to  Proserpine.  Poems  and  Ballads,  i.  The 
Latin  motto,  "Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean,"  consists  of  the 
apocryphal  words  attributed  to  the  dying  Julian  by  Christian  writers. 
The  story  is  first  told  by  Theodoretus,  a  Greek  Christian  father  of 
the  fifth  century. 

79.    Author's  foot-note. 

Thou  art  a  little  soul  bearing  up  a  corpse.  —  Epictetus. 

79.  The  Last  Oracle.  Poems  and  Ballads,  11.  The  Greek 
motto  runs  literally  as  follows  :  Tell  the  king  that  the  daedal  dwell- 
ing has  fallen  to  the  ground ;  Phoebus  no  longer  has  a  cell,  nor 
a  prophetic  laurel,  nor  a  water-spring  that  speaks  :  even  the  speak- 
ing water  is  quenched.  This  was  the  oracle  delivered  at  Delphi 
to  the  Emperor  Julian  in  361  A.  D.  "  That  voice  seems  rather 
to  have  been,  in  Plutarch's  phrase,  '  a  cry  floating  of  itself  over  soli- 


iliotes;  367 

tary  places,'  than  the  deliverance  of  any  recognised  priestess,  or  from 
any  abiding  shrine.  For  no  shrine  was  standing  more.  The  words 
which  answered  the  Emperor  Julian's  search  were  but  the  whisper  of 
desolation,  the  last  and  loveliest  expression  of  a  sanctity  that  had 
passed  away."     Frederic  Myers. 

80,    17.     Paian.    See  note  5,  5. 

82,  9.  Son  of  God  the  shining  son  of  time.    Apollo, 

son  of  Zeus,  the  son  of  Cronus.  Here  Cronus  is  confused  with 
Chronos  (Time),  an  error  into  which  the  classical  writers  fre- 
quently fell. 

87.  Hertha.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  Hertha  was  a  goddess 
worshipped  by  the  ancient  Germans,  according  to  Tacitus,  the 
earth-goddess,  with  an  island-shrine,  possibly  Riigen. 

97.  Hymn  of  Man.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  The  twenty-first 
CEcumenical  Council  met  in  Rome  December  8,  1869,  and  re- 
mained in  session  until  the  following  summer.  It  voted  for  the 
dogma  of  papal  infallibility  July  18,  1870.  Swinburne  brackets  the 
Hymn  to  Proserpine  and  the  Hymn  of  Alan  as  "the  deathsong  of 
spiritual  decadence  and  the  birthsong  of  spiritual  renascence." 

99,  1 .  Was  it  Love  brake  forth,  etc.  Aristophanes,  The 
Birds,  696. 

109,  II.  Cry,  cut  yourselves,  etc.  As  the  priests  of  Baal 
mocked  by  Elijah,     i  Kings  18,  28. 

112,    Prelude.    Songs  before  Sunrise. 

115,  23.  Maenads.  Female  Bacchantes,  who  worshipped 
Dionysus  with  frenzied  rites. 

116,  4.  Thyiades,  The  Attic  woman  who  joined  in  the 
Dionysiac  orgies  on  Mount  Parnassus.  Thyia,  a  daughter  of  Cas- 
talius  or  Cephisseus,  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  to  have  sacrificed 
to  Dionysus. 

116,  6.  Bassarid.  The  Bacchanals  of  Lydia  and  Thrace, 
clad  in  garments  of  fur. 

116,  19.  Cotys,  Cotys,  or  Cotytto,  a  Thracian  goddess 
worshipped  with  orgiastic  rites.  See  .(^schylus,  The  Edoniant 
(Fragment).  'S.eiJ.vh,  K6tvs  e'v  rots  "HZuvoi.  August  Cotys  among 
the  Edonians. 

119.    Siena.    Songs  before  Sunrise. 

121,  2.  That  saw  Saint  Catherine  bodily.  "  Herpil- 


368  i]5oteflf 


grimage  to  Avignon  to  recall  the  Pope  into  Italy  as  its  redeemer  from 
the  distractions  of  the  time  is  of  course  the  central  act  of  St.  Cath- 
erine's life,  the  great  abiding  sign  of  the  greatness  of  spirit  and  genius 
of  heroi.in  which  distinguished  this  daughter  of  the  people,  and 
should  yet  keep  her  name  tresh  above  the  holy  horde  of  saints,  in 
other  records  than  the  calendar.  .  .  .  The  high  and  fixed  passion 
of  her  heroic  temperament  gives  her  a  right  to  remembrance  and 
honour  of  which  the  miracle-mongers  have  done  their  best  to  deprive 
her.  ...  By  the  light  of  those  solid  and  actual  qualities  which 
ensure  to  her  no  ignoble  place  on  the  noble  roll  of  Italian  women 
who  have  deserved  well  of  Italy,  the  record  of  her  visions  and  ecsta- 
sies may  be  read  without  contemptuous  intolerance  of  hysterical  dis- 
ease. The  rapturous  visionary  and  passionate  ascetic  was  in  plain 
matters  of  the  earth  as  pure  and  practical  a  heroine  as  Joan  of  Arc." 
Swinburne.  Catherine  (i  347-1  380)  was  the  daughter  of  a  dyer 
of  Siena.  Her  pilgrimage  to  Avignon  was  undertaken  in  1377, 
and  resulted  in  the  return  of  the  Pope  (  Gregorv  XI.  )  to  Rome. 

121,  7.  Where  in  pure  hands  she  took  the  head, 
etc.  "The  story  which  tells  how  she  succeeded  in  humanizing 
a  criminal  under  sentence  of  death,  and  given  over  by  the  priests 
as  a  soul  doomed  and  desperate  ;  how  the  man  thus  raised  and 
melted  out  of  his  fierce  and  brutal  despair  besought  her  to  sustain 
him  to  the  last  by  her  presence  ;  how,  having  accompanied  him 
with  comfort  and  support  to  the  very  scaffold,  and  seen  his  head 
fall,  she  took  it  up,  and  turning  to  the  spectators  who  stood  doubt- 
ful whether  the  poor  wretch  could  be  '  saved,'  kissed  it  in  sign  of 
her  faith  that  his  sins  were  forgiven  him."    Swinburne. 

124,  4.  The  supreme  Seven.  Apparently  a  reference  to 
Dante,  ParaJiso,  xxxii.  The  spirits  of  the  blessed  women  in  the 
Celestial  Rose  are  thus  ranked  :  Mary,  Eve,  Rachel  (with 
Beatrice),  Sarah,  Rebecca,  Judith,  and  Ruth. 

124,  10.    There  on  the  dim  side-chapel  ■wall.    In 

the  church  of  San  Domenico,  where  are  the  frescos  by  Bazzi 
(Sodoma)  depicting  scenes  in  the  life  of  St.  Catherine. 

125,  19.    But  blood  and  tears  ye  love  not.   "  In  the 

Sienese  Academy  the  two  things  notable  to  me  were  the  de- 
tached wall-painting  by  Sodoma  of  the  tortures  of  Christ  bound  to 
the  pillar,  and  the  divine  though  mutilated  groups  of  the  Graces  in 


iptotes;  369 

the  centre  of  the  main  hall.  The  glory  and  beauty  of  ancient 
sculpture  refresh  and  satisfy  beyond  expression  a  sense  wholly 
wearied  and  wellnigh  nauseated  with  contemplation  of  endless 
sanctities  and  agonies  attempted  by  mediasval  art,  while  yet  as 
handless  as  accident  or  barbarism  has  left  the  sculptured  god- 
desses. ' '    Swinburne. 

126,  15.  Amathus.  A  place  in  Cyprus  with  a  celebrated 
temple  of  Aphrodite. 

127,  7.  Ricorditi  di  me,  che  son  la  Pia.  "  Re- 
member me,  who  am  la  Pia."  Dante.  Purgatorio,  v,  133. 
"  When  Buonconte  da  Montefeltro  has  finished  speaking,  another 
spirit  (that  of  Pia)  addresses  Dante  and  begs  him  when  he  returns 
to  the  upper  world  to  bear  her  in  mind  5  she  then  names  herself, 
and  states  that  she  was  born  in  Siena  and  died  in  the  Maremma, 
the  manner  of  her  death  being  known  to  him  who  was  her  second 
husband."  Toynbee.  The  formerly  accepted  identification  of  this 
lady  with  the  wife  of  Baldo  de'  Tolomei  has  recently  been  dis- 
proved by  Banchi  and  her  personality  is  in  doubt. 

128,  I.  Love  made  me,  etc.  A  paraphrase  of  Purg. 
133—6,  substituting  "Love"  for  "Siena"  and  "Hate"  for 
"Maremma." 

128,   19.    The  weary  poet.    Leopardi. 
The  reference  is  to  the  poem  Air  Italia. 

0  patria  mia,  vedo  le  mura  e  gli  archi, 
E  le  colonne  e  i  simulacri  e  I'erme 
Torri  degli  avi  nostri  ; 

Ma  la  gloria  non  vedo, 

Non  vedo  il  lauro  ed  il  ferro  ond'eran  carchi 

1  nostri  padri  antichi. 

(O  my  country,  I  behold  the  walls  and  the  arches,  and  the 
columns  and  the  statues  and  the  solitary  towers  of  our  ancestors  ; 
but  I  behold  not  the  glory,  I  behold  not  the  laurel  and  the  iron 
that  were  borne  by  our  fathers  of  old.  ) 

131,  7.  Trebia.  A  tributary  of  the  Po,  the  scene  of  Han- 
nibal's victory  (B.  C.  218)  and  of  Macdonald's  defeat  by  Suwarrovv 

(1799)- 

131,  8.  Mentana.  The  defeat  of  Garibaldi's  volunteers  by 
the  combined  Papal  and  French  forces,  Nov.  3,  1867. 


370  j^Oteflf 

131.  Perinde  AC  Cadaver.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  The  title 
is  the  Jesuitical  formula  of  absolute  submission  to  authority.  Even 
as  a  corpse. 

136.   The  Pilgrims.   Songs  before  Sunrise. 

141.  Super  Flumina  Babylonis.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  See 
Psalms,  137. 

143,  II.  The  horn  of  Eridanus.  The  delta  of  the 
river  Po. 

144,  15.    Aceldama.    The  field  of  blood.    Acts,  1,  19. 
148,    Mater    Dolorosa.    Songs   before    Sunrise.    Motto  from 

Hugo  :   "  Citizen,  said    Enjolras  to    him,  my  mother  is  the  Re- 
public. ' ' 

153.     Mater  Triumphalis.     Songs  before  Sunrise. 

161,  13.  That  supreme  song,  etc.  Presumably  a  refer- 
ence to  the  poetry  of  Hugo. 

162.  By  the  North  Sea.  Studies  in  Song.  Dedicated  to 
Walter  Theodore  Watts,  the  "  brother  "  of  the  introductory  sonnet. 
"  The  dreary  beauty,  inhuman  if  not  unearthly  in  its  desolation,  of 
the  innumerable  creeks  and  inlets,  lined  and  paven  with  sea-flowers, 
which  make  of  the  salt  marshes  a  fit  and  funereal  setting,  a  fatal 
and  appropriate  foreground,  for  the  supreme  desolation  of  the  relics 
of  Dunwich  ;  the  beautiful  and  awful  solitude  of  a  wilderness  on 
which  the  sea  has  forbidden  man  to  build  or  live,  overtopped  and 
bounded  by  the  tragic  and  ghastly  solitude  of  a  headland  on  which 
the  sea  has  forbidden  the  works  of  human  charity  and  piety  to  sur- 
vive."    Swinburne. 

167,  17.    In  the  valley  he  named  of  decision.  Joel, 

3>  ^^-  .  , 

169.  In  Swinburne's  Select  Poems,  Sections  iii.  and  iv.  are 
grouped  by  the  author  under  the  title  In  the  Salt  Marshes. 

172,  II.  The  •wise  wave-wandering'  steadfast- 
hearted  guest  of  many  a  lord  of  many  a  land.  Odys- 
seus. The  descent  of  the  hero  into  Hades,  and  the  interview  with 
the  ghost  of  Anticleia,  his  mother,  are  described  in  book  xi.  of  the 
Odyssey. 

181.  In  the  Select  Poems,  Sections  vi,  and  vii.  are  grouped 
under  the  title  Dunzvich. 

188.  In  Guernsey.  A  Century  of  Roundels.  Dedicated  to 
Theodore  Watts. 


iliotesf  371 

191,  12.  Farinata.  See  Dante,  Inferno^  10,  32.  A  Ghi- 
belline  leader  who  died  in  1264,  and  is  placed  by  Dante  among  the 
heretics  in  the  City  of  Dis,  in  the  sixth  Circle  of  Hell. 

191,  13.  Geryon.  See  Dante, /n/irno,  16,  1\  iqq.  Geryon 
was  a  winged  giant  with  three  bodies.  He  was  slain  by  Hercules, 
who  carried  off  his  cattle.  In  Dante,  he  is  made  the  symbol  of 
fraud  and  guardian  of  Malebolge. 

I93»  S-  Beloved  and  blest,  etc.  Victor  Hugo.  Haute- 
ville-House,  on  the  island  of  Guernsey,  was  the  home  of  Victor 
Hugo  from  1856  to  1870. 

194.  March  :  An  Ode,  Poems  and  Ballads,  iii.  Dated 
1887.    The  only  poem  in  octometers  in  the  English  language. 

199.    A  Forsaken  Garden.    Poems  and  Ballads,  11. 

204.  On  the  Verge.  A  Midsummer  Holiday  and  Other  Poems. 
This  is  Section  ix.  in  .^  Midsummer  Holiday. 

204,  6.  Land's  End.  The  southwestern  extremity  of  Corn- 
wall. 

206.    Recollections.    A  Century  of  Roundels. 

209,  2.     The   mother   of  months.     "  In   May,   that 

moder  is  of  monthes  glade."  Chaucer.  Troilus  and  Criseyde,  11. 
50.  Shelley,  in  Prometheus  Unbound,  iv.,  calls  the  moon  the 
mother  of  the  months." 

209,  6.  Itylus.  Aedon,  wife  of  the  Theban  King  Zethus, 
envious  of  Niobe,  her  sister-in-law,  for  having  six  sons,  tries  to  kill 
the  eldest,  but  by  mistake  kills  her  own  son  Itylus.  Changed  into 
a  nightingale  by  Zeus,  she  forever  bewails  her  lost  son. 

211,  6.  The  Maenad  and  the  Bassarid.  See  Notes 
115,  23,  and  226,  6. 

213,  20.    Rhodope.    The  highest  mountain-range  in  Thrace. 

214,  6.     A  God,  a  great  God   strange   of  name. 

Boreas,  who  captured  Oreithyia,  daughter  of  Erechtheus,  and 
carried  her  off  to  Thrace. 

217,  10.  For  the  new  bride's  sake.  Chthonia,  daughter 

of  Erechtheus,  sacrificed  by  her  father  at  the  behest  of  the  oracle,  in 
consequence  whereof  the  Eleusinians  were  defeated  in  their  assault 
upon  Athens. 

218.  Chorus.  This  is  the  closing  choms  of  Erechtheus,  and  is 
perhaps  the  most  extraordinary  example  of  unbroken  anapaestic 
rhythm  to  be  found  in  Swinburne. 


372  j^Ote0 

219.   Hesperia.    The  Western  land,  Italy  or  Spain. 

223,  I.    O  my  Dolores  1   See  Dolores,  Poems  and  Ballads,  1. 

226.  Two  Preludes.  A  Century  of  Roundels.  Lohengrin  and 
Tristan  und  Isolde  are  two  of  the  music-dramas  of  Richard  Wagner. 

227.  A  Wasted  Vigil.     Poems  and  Ballads,  11. 

230.  The  Sundew.  Poems  and  Ballads,  I.  The  sundew 
(Drosera)  is  best  known  to  readers  as  an  insectivorous  plant,  described 
in  the  writings  of  Darwin  and  other  naturalists.  This  is  the  only 
instance  known  to  the  editor  ot  its  use  for  poetical  purposes. 

232.    A  Watch.     Poems  and  Ballads,  1. 

234.  The  Salt  of  the  Earth.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and 
Other  Poems. 

235.  Of  Such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven.  Tristram  of 
Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems.  This  is  Section  xxii.  of  the  collection 
of  childhood  lyrics  entitled  A  Dark  Month.  The  poem  has  no  title 
of  its  own. 

236.  A  Child's  Laughter.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other 
Poems. 

237.  A  Child's  Future.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other 
Poems. 

239.    A  B.aby's  De.'^th.    a  Century  of  Roundels. 

242.  12.  His  name  crovvned  once,  etc.  Michel- 
angelo. 

243.  Hope  and  Fear.     Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems. 
2^i\.    "  NoN  Dolet."    Songs  before  Sunrise.     Paetus  Cascina, 

ordered  by  the  Emperor  Claudius  to  put  an  end  to  his  life,  hesitated 
to  strike  the  suicidal  blow,  whereupon  his  wife  Arria  took  the  dag- 
ger, plunged  it  into  her  own  breast,  then  handed  it  to  him,  saying  : 
Paete,  non  dolet  (  Paetus,  it  does  not  hurt).  See  Pliny,  Letter  T^id,  6. 

244.  Pelagius.  a  Alidsummer  Holidaf  and  Other  Poems. 
Pelagius  was  a  Celtic  theologian  of  the  fifth  century,  who  opposed 
the  doctrine  of  original  sin,  and  was  formally  condemned  as  a  heretic 
by  a  council  of  bishops  held  in  Carthage. 

247.  The  Descent  Into  Hell.  Songs  of  Tivo  Nations. 
Dir^,xvi.  Dated  Jan.  9,  1873.  These  sonnets  commemorate  the 
death  of  Louis  Napoleon. 

248.  The  Moderates.  Songs  of  Tivo  Nations.  Dira,  xi. 
Dated  February,  1870.     The   Latin  motto  is  from  Persius,  3,  38. 


#OCe0  373 

"They  beheld  virtue,  and  forsaking  her,  withered  away."  This 
thought  is  reproduced  in  the  last  line  of  the  sonnet.  The  Moderates 
were  the  conservatives  in  Italian  politics,  who,  after  the  death  of 
Cavour  in  1861,  looked  to  Louis  Napoleon  as  Italy's  best  friend,  and 
opposed  the  revolutionary  activities  of  Garibaldi. 

249.  The  Burden  of  Austria,  iiongs  of  Two  Nations.  Dirce, 
v.    Dated  1866. 

249,  21.  Is  it  not  thou  that  now  art  but  a  name  ? 
"  A  geographical  expression  "  was  Metternich's  sneering  designation 
of  Italy. 

250.  Apologia.  Songs  of  Two  Nations.  Dira,  xxii.  The 
closing  sonnet  in  this  series  of  invectives. 

250.  On  the  Russian  Persecution  of  the  Jews.  Tristram 
of  Lyonesse  and    Other  Poems.      Dated  Jan.  23,  1882. 

251.  Dysthanatos.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems. 
Dated  March  14,  1 88 1.  Dysthanatos  means  unpleasant  death,  as 
opposed  to  euthanasia,  or  pleasant  death.  The  Latin  motto  means: 
Few  kings  go  down  to  the  son-in-law  of  Ceres  without  violence  and 
wounds,  or  tyrants  by  a  dry  death.  Juvenal,  x.  111-12.  Words- 
worth in  the  sonnet,  Look  noiv  on  that  adventurer  ivho  hath  paid., 
says  of  Napoleon  : 

"  And,  if  old  judgments  keep  their  sacred  course, 
Him  from  that  height  shall  Heaven  precipitate 
By  violent  and  ignominious  death." 

252.  Carnot.  a  Channel  Passage  and  Other  Poems.  Dated 
June  25,  1894.  Marie-Francois  Sadi-Carnot,  President  of  the 
French  Republic,  was  assassinated  by  an  anarchist  June  24, 
1894. 

253.  Vos  Deos  Laudamus.  A  Alidsummer  Holiday  and  Other 
Poems.  These  sonnets  were  occasioned  by  the  discussion  that  took 
place  in  the  English  press  over  the  acceptance  of  a  peerage  by  Alfred 
Tennyson. 

255)  9-  Such  hands  as  wove,  etc.  Sophocles,  Gidipus 
at  Colonus. 

255.  In  San  Lorenzo.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  The  sacristy  of 
the  church  of  San  Lorenzo,  in  Florence,  was  built  by  Michel- 
angelo, and  contains  his  famous  figures  of  Day  and  Night.    The  poet 


374  i1iotf0 

Strozzi,   a   contemporary  of  the   sculptor,   inscribed  the  statue  of 

Night  wifh  the  following  verses  : 

"  La  Notte,  che  tu  vedi  in  si  dolci  atti 
Dormire,  fu  da  un  Angelo  scolpita 
In  questo  sasso,  e  perche  dorme  ha  vita  ; 
Destala,  se  no  '1  credi,  e  parleratti." 

(Night,  whom  thou  beholdest  thus  softly  slumbering,  was  by  an 
Angel  sculptured  in  this  stone,  and  because  she  sleeps  is  alive  ; 
awaken  her,  if  thou  doubtest,  and  she  will  speak  to  thee.  )  Where- 
upon Michelangelo  replied,  having  reference  to  the  evil  days  of 
tyranny  and  injustice  upon  which  he  had  fallen  : 

"  Grato  m'  e  '1  sonno,  e  piu  1'  esser  di  sasso, 
Mentre  che  '1  danno  e  la  vergogna  dura  : 
Non  veder,  non  sentir,  m'  e  gran  ventura  ; 
Pero  non  mi  destar  ;    deh  !   parla  basso  !  ' ' 
(Grateful  to   me   is  sleep,    and   still  more   to  be  of   stone,   while 
evil  and  shame  endure  :   neither   to   see  nor  to  hear  is  to  me  great 
good  fortune  ;  therefore  do  not  awaken  me  ;  ah  !  speak  low  ! )    In 
this  sonnet,  Swinburne  compares   the  condition  of  Italy  in  Michel- 
angelo's   time  with  her  condition    under  the   Papal  and  Austrian 
tyranny  of  the  middle  nineteenth  century. 

256.  The  Festival  of  Beatrice.  Astrophel  and  Other  Poems. 
Dante's  Beatrice  died  June  8,  1290.  This  sonnet  celebrates  the  six 
hundredth  anniversary  of  her  death. 

256,    12.     Behold  ■we  well,  etc.     Purgatorio,  XXX.  73. 

257-  Christopher  Marlowe.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and 
Other  Poems. 

257)  '5-  If  3-11  the  pens,  etc.  Marlowe,  Tamburlaine  the 
Great,  Part  the  First,  v.   i . 

258.  William  Shakespeare.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other 
Poems. 

258.  John  Webster.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems. 
This  and  the  two  preceding  sonnets  are  from  a  series  of  twenty-one 
Sonnets  on  English  Dramatic  Poets  {/jgo-/6jo),  supplemented 
by  one  on  Cyril  Toumeur  in  Poems  and  Ballads,  11.,  and  by  the 
series  of  Prologues  which  close  A  Channel  Passage  and  Other 
Poems. 


ijJotesf  375 

259.  Cor  Cordium.  Songs  before  Sunrise.  These  are  the  words 
upon  Shelley's  tombstone  in  the  Protestant  Cemetery  at  Rome. 

260.  Dickens.     Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems. 

261.  On  the  Deaths  of  Thomas  Carlyle  and  George 
Eliot.  Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems.  Both  these 
writers  died  in  1881. 

262.  On  the  Death  of  Robert  Browning.  Astrophel  and 
Other  Poems.  The  last  of  a  sequence  of  seven  sonnets,  dated  Dec. 
13-15,  1889. 

263.  Thalassius.  Songs  of  the  Springtides.  This  poem  is  a 
highly  symbolical  spiritual  autobiography,  and  hence  of  great  signi- 
ficance for  the  study  of  Swinburne. 

264.  3.    Cymothoe.    One  of  the  Nereids. 

264,    22.    But  he  that  found,  etc.    Walter  Savage  Landor. 

267,  4.  And  gladly  should  man  die  to  gain,  etc. 

These  two  lines  freely  translate  Lander's  inscription  for  the  Spanish 

patriots  who  gave  their  lives  in  defending  their  country  against  the 

Napoleonic  invasion.    The  inscription  is  as  follows  : 

Emeriti  .  lubenter  .  quiescerimus. 

Libertate  .  parta. 
Quiescimus  .  amissa  .  perlubenter. 

A  more  literal  translation  occurs  in  Swinburne's  Song  for  tht 
Centenary  of  Walter  Savage  Landor. 

Gladly  we  should  rest  ever,  had  we  won 
Freedom  :   we  have  lost,  and  very  gladly  rest. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  with  this  the  version  by  Sir  Henry 
Taylor,  in  St.   Clement' s  E-ve. 

And  say  I  gladly  would  have  lived  to  serve  her, 
Wherein  defeated,  I  as  gladly  die. 

279,  7.    The  furred  Bassarides.  See  Note  116,  6. 

280,  23.  Erigone.  The  daughter  of  Icarius,  ending  her 
life  through  grief  at  her  father's  murder,  and  set  by  Zeus  among  the 
stars  as  the  constellation  Virgo.  This  story  is  closely  connected 
with  the  legend  of  the  coming  of  Dionysus  to  Attica. 

283,  2.  Wild  mares  in  Thessaly.  For  this  legend  see 
Iliad,  20,  223,  and  Georgics,  3,  275. 


37^  il^otes; 

285.  Adieux  a  Marie  Stuart.  Tristram  of  Lyonesie  and  Other 
Poems. 

285,  7.  Queen,  for  whose  house  my  fathers  fought. 

A  reference  to  the  poet's  Jacobite  ancestry. 

290,  6.    The  song  .  .  ,  that  took  your  praise  up 

twenty  years  ago.  The  three  parts  of  Swinburne's  dramatic 
trilogy  were  published  in  1865,  1874,  and  1881,  respectively. 

290.  On  a  Country  Road.  A  Midsummer  Holiday  and  Other 
Poems.    This  is  Section  iii.  of  A  Midsummer  Holiday. 

292.     In  the  Bay.     Poems  and  Ballads,  11. 

294,  17.  Son  of  the  songs  of  morning.  Christopher 
Marlowe. 

297,  3.  Like  spray  these  waves  cast  off  her  foe- 
men's  fleet.    The  defeat  of  the  Spanish  Armada. 

299,   5.    He  that  rose  our  mightiest.    Shakespeare. 

299,  18.  The  tw^in-souled  brethren,  etc.  Beaumont 
and  Fletcher. 

300,  3.    That  fixed  fervour,  etc.    John  Ford. 

300,   15.    You  tw^ain  the  same  swift  year.    Marlowe 

and  Shelley  died  in  their  thirtieth  year. 

305.  In  Memory  of  Walter  Savage  Landor.  Poems  and 
Ballads,  I.  Landor  died  in  Florence  Sept.  17,  1 864,  a  few 
months  before  the  provisional  establishment  in  that  city  of  the 
capital  of  United  Italy. 

306.  9.  I  came  as  one,  etc.  Swinburne  went  to  Italy  in 
1864,  and  paid  a  visit  to  Landor,  bringing  a  letter  of  introduction 
from  R.  M.  Milnes. 

307.  To  Victor  Hugo.  Poems  and  Ballads,  i.  This  is  the 
first  of  Swinburne's  many  tributes  to  the  great  French  poet.  His 
more  elaborate  Birthday  Ode  (1880),  in  the  Pindaric  form,  with 
the  series  of  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode  thirteen  times  repeated, 
occurs  in  Songs  of  the  Springtides.  The  Statue  cf  Victor  Hugo,  in 
Tristram  of  Lyonesse  and  Other  Poems,  is  almost  equally  noteworthy. 

311,  3.  Help  to  my  sires  and  home.  An  allusion  to 
Swinburne's  ancestors,  exiled  by  their  devotion  to  the  Stuart  cause. 

314,  3.  Still  sho'ws  him  exile,  etc.  This  poem  was 
written  when  Hugo  was  living,  a  voluntary  exile,  in  Guernsey. 

316.    Ave  Aroiyz  Vale.    Poems  and  Ballads,  11.    The  verses 


jl^otrsf  377 

from  Baudelaire  may  be  translated  as  follows  :  "  Yet  should  we 
bear  him  a  few  flowers  ;  the  dead,  the  unhappy  dead,  have  great 
sorrows,  and  when  October,  pruner  of  ancient  trees,  breathes  its 
melancholy  winds  about  their  tombs,  assuredly,  the  living  must 
seem  to  them  very  ingrates." 

317,  1-3.  Lesbian  promontories  .  .  ,  Leucadian 
grave.  Sappho,  born  in  the  isle  of  Lesbos,  was  reputed  to  have 
cast  herself  into  the  sea  from  the  rock  of  Leucas. 

319,  6.  Some  pale  Titan-woman,  etc.  See  Baudelaire, 
La  Gcante. 

322.    And  lay,  Orestes-like,  etc.    See  ^schylus,  Choe- 

phora,  4-8. 

322,    15.    Him,  the  King.    Agamemnon. 

324,  II.    That  obscure  Venus  of  the  hollow  hill. 

The  Venus  of  classical  mythology,  transformed  into  an  evil  spirit  by 
the  mediaeval  religious  imagination,  was  supposed  to  hold  her  court 
in  the  recesses  of  the  Venusberg  or  Horselberg,  in  Thuringia  (Cen- 
tral Germany).    This  is  made  familiar  by  the  Tannhauser  legend. 

324,  14.  Erycine.  From  Eryx,  in  Sicily,  the  seat  of  a 
temple  to  Aphrodite  Urania  j  that  is,  to  Aphrodite  as  the  goddess 
of  the  higher  and  purer  love. 

325,  I.  And  now  no  sacred  staff,  etc  An  allusion  to 
the  Tannhauser  legend.  The  knight,  escaping  from  the  snare  of 
Lady  Venus,  makes  a  pilgrimage  to  Rome,  to  implore  pardon  for 
his  sins.  Cursed  by  the  Pope,  he  is  told  that  it  is  no  more  possible  he 
should  be  forgiven  than  that  the  dry  staff  in  the  hand  of  God's 
vicegerent  should  break  forth  into  fresh  flower.  After  his  de- 
parture, this  miracle  occurs,  and  messengers  are  despatched  to  find 
him,  bearing  with  them  the  blossoming  staff.  See  Swinburne, 
Laus  Veneris. 

326,  Lines  on  the  Monument  of  Giuseppe  Mazzini.  A 
Midsummer  Holiday  and  Other  Poems.  This  monument  is  in  the 
Campo  Santo  of  Genoa,  just  outside  the  city. 

329.  The  Death  of  Richard  Wagner.  A  Century  of 
Roundels.    Wagner  died  in  Venice,  Feb.  13,  1883. 

331,  Dedication.  Poems  and  Ballads,  1.  "  To  my  friend 
Edward  Burne-Jones,  these  poems  are  affectionately  and  admiringly 
inscribed." 


378  jliotes 

335.  Dedication.  Poems  and  Ballads,  11.  "  Inscribed  to 
Richard  F.  Burton,  in  redemption  of  an  old  pledge,  and  in  recogni- 
tion of  a  friendship  which  I  must  always  count  among  the  highest 
honours  of  my  life. ' ' 

337.  Hendecasyllabics.  Poems  and  Ballads,  I.  It  is  in- 
teresting to  compare  Tennyson's  study  in  the  same  metre. 

345-  Grand  Chorus  of  Birds  from  Aristophanes.  Studies 
in  Song.  "  I  was  allured  into  the  audacity  of  this  experiment  by  con- 
sideration of  a  fact  which  hitherto  does  not  seem  to  have  been  taken 
into  consideration  by  any  translator  of  the  half  divine  humourist  in 
whose  incornparable  genius  the  highest  qualities  of  Rabelais  were  fused 
and  harmonized  with  the  supremest  gifts  of  Shelley  :  namely  that 
his  marvellous  metrical  invention  of  the  anapaestic  heptameter  was 
almost  exactly  reproducible  in  a  language  to  which  all  variations 
and  combinations  of  anapaestic,  iambic,  or  trochaic  metre  are  as 
natural  and  pliable  as  all  dactylic  and  spondaic  forms  of  verse  are 
unnatural  and  abhorrent.  As  it  happens,  this  highest  central  inter- 
lude of  a  most  adorable  masterpiece  is  as  easy  to  detach  from  its 
dramatic  setting,  and  even  from  its  lyrical  context,  as  it  was  easy  to 
give  hne  for  line  of  it  in  English.  In  two  metrical  points  only 
does  my  version  vary  from  the  verbal  pattern  of  the  original. 
I  have  of  course  added  rhymes,  and  double  rhymes,  as  necessary 
makeweights  for  the  imperfection  of  an  otherwise  inadequate  lan- 
guage ;  and  equally  of  course  I  have  not  attempted  the  impossible 
and  undesirable  task  of  reproducing  the  rare  exceptional  effect  of  a 
line  overcharged  on  purpose  with  a  preponderance  of  heavy-footed 
spondees  :  and  this  for  the  obvious  reason  that  even  if  such  a  line 
—  which  I  doubt — could  be  exactly  represented,  foot  by  foot 
and  pause  for  pause,  in  English,  this  English  line  would  no  more  be 
a  verse  in  any  proper  sense  of  the  word  than  is  the  line  I  am  writ- 
ing at  this  moment.  And  my  main  intention,  or  at  least  my  main 
desire,  in  the  undertaking  of  this  brief  adventure  was  to  renew  as 
far  as  possible  for  English  ears  the  music  of  this  resonant  and 
triumphant  metre,  which  goes  ringing  at  full  gallop  as  of  horses  who 

'  dance  as  'twere  to  the  music 
Their  own  hoofs  make.' 

I  would   not   seem  over-curious  in  search  of  an  apt  or  an  inapt 


jjiotes!  379 

quotation  ;  but  nothing  can  be  fitter  than  a  verse  of  Shakespeare's 
to  praise  at  once  and  to  describe  the  most  typical  verse  of  Aristo- 
phanes."   Swinburne. 

345,  8.  Prodicus.  A  Greek  sophist,  contemporary  with 
Socrates. 

347,  6.  Orestes  the  thief.  A  notorious  footpad  of 
Athens,  perhaps  thus  nicknamed  because  he  feigned  madness. 

348.  A  Jacobite's  Farewell.     Poems  and  Ballads,  111. 

348,  5.    Tyne.    To  lose. 

349.  A  Jacobite's  Exile.     Poems  and  Ballads,  iii. 

349,  20.  On  dark  Drumossie's  day.  Drumossie 
Moor  is  another  name  for  Culloden,  where  the  Young  Pretender 
met  his  final  defeat,  April  16,  1746. 

351,   3.   A  weird  for  dreeing.    A  fate  to  be  endured. 

351,    9.    Thole.     To  bear. 

353,  The  Higher  Pantheism  in  a  Nutshell.  The  Hepta- 
logia.    A  parody  upon  Tennyson's  T/ie  Higher  Pantheism. 

355-  Sonnet  for  a  Picture.  The  Heptalogia.  A  parody 
upon  Rossetti.  This  is  a  composite  of  suggestions  rather  than  an 
imitation  of  any  particular  sonnet. 

356.  Nephelidia.  The  Heptalogia.  The  title  may  be  trans- 
lated as  "  Cloudlets."  Few  poets  have  been  parodied  as  extensively 
as  Swinburne,  but  no  one  else  has  been  quite  as  successful  as  Swin- 
burne himself,  in  the  present  attempt,  to  mock  at  his  own  manner- 
isms of  diction  and  rhythmical  effect. 


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